Big Bad World
by Giggles96
Summary: It was never Moriarty's plan to aim an unforgiving gun at a dark-haired, sniffling toddler who was once the tall, lean consulting detective only minutes prior, with a thoughtful finger idly massaging the trigger. De-aged!Sherlock. Daddy!Moriarty.
1. Big Bad World

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**Big** **Bad World**

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><p><strong>AN: **First of, let me just say, I have never written a Sherlock fic before and while I was inspired to write this because I caught the tail-end of an episode, it's been a few months since I've actually watched the series, so it may not be entirely accurate. I just…couldn't get this out of my head and I tend to just go along with whatever my muse is urging me to write. I sort of set this as some sort of challenge to myself, so it's probably not very good and I also kind of wrote it in a rush, but I hope you enjoy this (one-shot?) all the same.

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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><p>The second their eyes meet all he cares to see is fear.<p>

Those tiny beads of sweat forming on their forehead, hugely dilated pupils, that delightful bobbing of their throat as they nervously swallow, the spasms of facial muscles as they try to appear impassive - a pitiful attempt at most - and the way their jaws clamp together… just seconds before the shiver-inducing thrill of a bloodcurdling scream.

But the best part? The part that _really_ gets his heart pumping…

That instant when their wild flailing turns to jerky movements and their eyes flatten with defeat as they recognise, without a doubt, that this is the end; When their screams taper off into gurgles as blood begins to surge upwards and outwards, trickles of intelligent red, and they gag and splutter while he watches.

Truly, there is nothing better than those final moments.

Predator and prey, the superior and the weak. Natural selection or detailed targeting?

'_See you later_,' he'll cry cheerfully, a last goodbye stolen from grieving families. But what does he care? These people were choking on borrowed breath anyway.

Delinquency is understandably tempting when you're safe in the knowledge that you won't face any repercussions - when you appreciate how _easy_ it is to get off scot-free - and for Moriarty, it's like an addiction. An art, even. Innovative and electrifying and prosperous, all but drowning in riches.

He can choose not to live a life of crime, sure - but the problem is, he _wants_ to. For Jim, it makes no difference who gets hurt in the process. As a matter of fact, the aftermath is generally more exhilarating than the wrongdoing or killing itself, although there is something remarkably tantalizing about holding the fate of someone's survival in your hands.

Moriarty ends lives for kicks whenever the notion strikes him, and he has no intentions of nipping this little habit in the bud any time soon.

Truth be told, the consulting criminal has killed a fair amount, too. More than any normal human being could possibly count, but then, he's not exactly normal, is he? He has a tally, he keeps score. No-one is exempt from his games. Rich or poor, alone or surrounded, happy or miserable, Moriarty will snatch them up and there will be revelry and laughter and _blood_ - dripping from one city to another.

It's madness. It's daring. It never, ever lasts.

Certainly, at first, it is oh-so-new and exciting for someone who sometimes feels as if they've seen it all. Stimulus is very important, you know. And his schemes provide that, if nothing else. Presents some distractions until inevitably, he grows bored once again.

And make no mistake, it is only ever a matter of time before he grows bored once again.

Highs and lows, dipping between overindulgence, marvelling in the wonders of the world, and this intense hatred for virtually everything, lashing out if only to show he can.

All those years nurturing his ego, sauntering around in the most conceited and sardonic way imaginable.

Bankers, politicians, business men, even the most powerful world leaders - All playthings to which he is lethal.

Moriarty knows that no matter what he does, or how many a-holes he crosses, he can revel in the fact that essentially, he is untouchable.

Even when the great Sherlock Holmes began poking his nose into his business, Moriarty could only gasp in delight, grin wider than he ever remembered grinning before, and gladly rise to the challenge.

Finally, someone to match his vast intellect, someone who _understood_.

Harmless fun. Hide and seek.

An impish yell, _'Honey, I'm hooomme,' _and aching, childish need.

He was simply bored; Sherlock knows the torture of boredom.

But this? This isn't what he wanted at all.

It was never Moriarty's plan to aim an unforgiving gun at a dark-haired, sniffling toddler, who was once the tall, lean consulting detective only minutes prior, - a plump, delectable little munchkin, really. Sweet enough to munch on - with a thoughtful finger idly massaging the trigger.

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><p>It was unexpected. Entirely unexpected, which isn't very fair; Moriarty doesn't like surprises.<p>

Oh, he loves _giving_ surprises, but it's no fun when you're on the receiving end.

He was in the middle of a meeting with some burly simpletons - purely business, he can assure - and discussing the shipping of a new, untested drug he'd acquired through some of his more… scientific connections. The whacky, extremist kind, mostly. Though that's never bothered him. Moriarty has been positively _dying_ to get his hands on their latest experiment.

Normally, he doesn't get so involved in such transactions, but the man felt this merited a more…personal touch. In other words, Jim was bored. He wasn't in the mood to hide behind smokescreens; he craved action and chaos, and he was looking forward to the opportunity to let off some steam and be a snarky son of a bitch.

It had been going _so well _- tediously well-executed, if he's sincere - when, all of a sudden, who should barge in but The Virgin and his earnest little sidekick. Apparently, they'd been tracking him ever since he'd left Naples two days ago.

How… wonderful. _Someone's _clearly getting sloppy.

There was a struggle, of course, and a few, minor casualties. Dead bodies and gushing red. Nothing too out of the ordinary.

Then, the biggest one, Alaric, he thinks, got a hold of the his pet detective - was so deliciously rough. However, being the Neanderthal meathead that he is, Alaric wasted no time jamming a needle into Sherlock's thigh, whilst another crony tied his soldier friend down and ducktaped his mouth.

It was all very unfortunate.

Do-gooder that he is, Moriarty _did_ protest, but by then, it was too late.

The deed was done. And he stood back and stared as his only real rival began to shrink, feeling a cutting tightness around his chest as Moriarty realised with a start that he was all alone.

No more races to save innocents. No more games of cat and mouse.

Alone - one word he swore he would never, ever use. Certainly not aloud. Certainly never something he would confide in anyone else.

They were kindred spirits. They had _something_. Together. A connection. Bound by their unreachable intelligence.

But now the exceptional, mighty Sherlock has been reduced to a pathetic, drooling _idiot _of puerility. And he wonders what's the point.

Hence, the gun. His steely resolve. And an admittedly trigger-happy finger.

Usually, when he's wound up, Moriarty gets vengeance or plays a naughty, little prank, which may involve a touch of collateral damage - but that's not really an option now.

The John one is thrashing violently in the corner against his restraints and while vaguely amusing at first, this partnered with his muffled bellows is turning out to be rather irritating, grating on his sensitive eardrums. So irritating, in fact, that it is distracting him from his murderous intent.

_"SHUT UP!" _he finally roars, swivelling around with enraged eyes. "Just SHUT _UP_. Can't you see I am trying to _think?_!"

With noisy, clipped exhales, John gazes back at him, stunned.

Falling back on his heels, Moriarty shoves a hand through his slicked back hair, straightens his cuffs and subtly readjusts his tie, before breathing a slightly shaky sigh and saying blithely, "Now was that so hard?"

He doesn't answer. Of course, he doesn't.

But it angers him all the same. Striding forward, he crouches down in front of the other man, leans in uncomfortably close to face, and lowers his voice to a measured, menacing whisper, "I said... was that so hard?"

Without warning, he viciously rips off the tape.

Stifling a moan, John glares up at him, but says with admirable neutrality, "Please just let him go. He's only a kid. Sherlock isn't a threat to you anymore."

A deep, hearty chuckle erupts from Jim's chest. "Is this an attempt to appeal to my humanity, John Watson?" he questions, and as light-hearted and playful as it sounds on the surface, there is an undercurrent to his tone that is dangerously brittle. Especially as he thrusts the butt of the gun into the hollow of the man's throat.

John swallows thickly.

"Because, I assure you," he grins, "You'll be bitterly disappointed. If you're looking for guy-who-gives-a-damn-of-the-year, I'm hardly the perfect candidate. " Amusement flickers in his eyes.

"Spare him," John pleads, voice cracking. "Please. Let us leave and you'll never have to hear from either of us ever again, I promise. I am begging you, Moriarty - please don't hurt him."

The consulting criminal smirks cruelly.

Tilting his head to the side, he furrows his brows and sourly ponders, "But what if I don't want there to be a Sherlock that's not _my _Sherlock?"

John reels back in surprise, blurting, "What?"

Half-shrugging in an overly careless manner, he explains, "As you have so kindly pointed out, he's a child. A stupid, dependant child. He's of no use to me like this. And if I can't have him, well…" His voice takes on a colder note as his fixed stare hardens with a remorseless, almost voracious glint. "I think you get the picture."

"But he is still Sherlock," the other man argues desperately. "He's still as brilliant as he ever was. Nothing's changed!"

"Everything's changed," Moriarty snaps. Then he arranges a tight, little smile that's all barbed wire and pointed daggers. "So you see, I don't have a choice. I have to kill him."

At this point, he sounds almost apologetic, forehead crinkled in a way that is certainly not sincere, blinking guilelessly. "I apologise for whatever inconvenience or heartache this must cause you, Love Bug. But I simply cannot let him go."

And he isn't merely talking about literally setting him free.

"Please don't do this," John implores, giving his ropes another tug. "You don't have to do this." Risking a glance over at the miniature detective who is currently cramming a tiny, slobber-coated fist into his mouth and mindlessly chomping, he murmurs wistfully, "He won't let you do this."

"Oh, he won't _let _me, will he? That's interesting. Interesting choice of words there. What devious plan is the extraordinary Mr. Holmes concocting now, pray tell? Is he going to… what?" Moriarty pauses with a malicious sneer, waggling his brows. "Cry? Tell on me?" His eyebrows jump in patronizing alarm. "Throw a spectacularly trying tantrum? Gah," he cries theatrically, recoiling, "I can already taste defeat!"

Scarcely restraining himself from rolling his eyes, - as he would under any other circumstances, - John sighs.

Straightening, Moriarty grins a mischievous yet brutal grin and scoffs, nothing short of mocking, "Don't be silly, Doctor. I never figured you for the wishful type."

"You need him," John counters, confident and defiant, "You need him to win. This…this, right now, it isn't winning. He's not an opponent like this; even in this form Sherlock is still the only person that you can ever hope to compete with on your level. Neither of you have proved who's got the upper-hand, neither of you have been outdone. And if you kill him, you will always feel incomplete, forever wondering if you ever had a chance to begin with."

Nostrils flaring, Moriarty bites, furious, "You," he rams the gun closer, "Need to remember whom you're speaking to. Unbalanced psychopath with a gun, remember?" he sings. "So I would be careful, if I were you." The consulting criminal makes a sharp slashing gesture across his throat, lip curling. "Else you're toast."

John sets his jaw. "It only bothers you because it's the truth."

Jim sits back, considering this as he rubs his chin with the head of the gun, feeling the coolness press against his flesh, the weight of the weapon in his hands. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock. Wriggling bare toes and kicking out from a puddle of clothes. His lower lip is puckering in frustration while his watery eyes brim over, salty tears dripping down his face as he whimpers. And it hits him, suddenly. All at once.

He's bored. The child is... _bored._

Moriarty narrows his eyes, clucks his tongue, hums a pleasant tune. He pensively smacks his lips, cocks his head, thinks it through.

He will _not_ be alone.

He refused to be.

Suddenly throwing back his head, Moriarty groans loudly. "Ugh! Fine! Ruin all of my fun, why not? I don't even _care_ anymore!"

John blinks, incredulous and cautiously optimistic. "Wh-what?"

"Don't sweat it, Johnny-boy. You didn't seriously think I was going to murder an itty bitty _child_, did you? I would _never_ allow harm to come to a child," he says, as if scandalised. "Not least a charming little genius one. Honestly. Just look at those big blue eyes, John. Aren't they adorable? He's sooooo adorable, I think I might even hurl. Don't you just want to pick him up and _squeeze_ him within an inch of his life, Dr. Watson?" Moriarty asks, rising to his feet. "So cuddly and cute and oh so _innocent_." He claps his hands together. "It's marvellous."

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, John coughs, "Uh, marvellous?"

"Oh, yes." He beams. "Very much so."

He steps towards the small bundle, gun clattering to the ground. Rosy cheeks and floppy, dark hair falling into large, inquisitive eyes.

"What-what are you doing?" the other man demands, panicked. "Stay away from him! Don't-don't you dare touch him!"

Ignoring him, Moriarty kneels down beside the little boy and trails his fingers lazily through the youngster's soft hair, lips twitching. Reaching for him under his armpits, he plucks him from the warm clothes pile and cradles the young child close (who is swathed in a large, crisp white shirt), pressing his forehead against the little one's and breathing in deeply. It is a heavy, musky scent, entwined with rust and damp. Across the boy's cheek there is a bright smear of blood, - residue from the fight, he's certain, - which Moriarty gently rubs away with his thumb.

"Good boy," he smiles, tweaking the toddler's nose.

Almost instinctively, Sherlock gives a tearful, sleepy snuffle and burrows his head into the man's chest, nuzzling into the crook of his neck and tiredly pushing his thumb between his lips as Moriarty soothingly pats his back.

There is an infinitesimal twitch in his cold, dead heart that he quickly dismisses as indigestion.

"Don't worry, lil' guy," he murmurs lowly, bouncing him lightly. "Daddy's got you now. I won't let anything happen to you."

Meanwhile, John all but gapes in shock, managing to unintelligibly splutter, "You can't seriously-Moriarty, don't-" But all of his objections fall on deaf ears - white noise against his quiet moment of truth.

This child is forever his to mould and shape. No-one can take him away from him now. No-one. Not ever.

"You're mine now, Sherlock. All," Moriarty smirks, makes a gleeful popping sound, "Mine."

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><p><em>Thanks very much for reading. Please do let me know what you think.<em>


	2. Better Man

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**Better Man**

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><p><strong>AN: **Okay, so here's another chapter of the story I told myself I didn't have the time to write. I may be finished with it; I may not, depending on how this is received. I hope this lives up to any expectations. Bear in mind, though, that this is _Moriarty's _story, not Sherlock's, so it's probably going to be dark and disturbing in parts, because that's just the nature of the character.

Oh, and a massive thanks to anyone who reviewed - you are what kept this alive, truly.

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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><p>He's a better man now, didn't you hear? That's what they all assume. Word got around that he had a kid and suddenly everyone was underestimating him.<p>

What a bunch of twats. Gullible fools, the lot of them.

It's their own fault, really, if he retaliates to their ill-advised little power-plays with greater machinery and grander plots than they could ever aspire to contend with. He's the top dog, the brains they so desperately need behind the operation, and they'd do well not to forget it.

A clumsy game of trial and error, Moriarty is sitting crossed-legged on the floor building blocks with the Munchkin, - merely humouring the little boy. He's fed-up listening to his incessant blubbering and that's the honest-to-God extent of it - who stacks them as high as he possibly can and eagerly awaits the devastating ecstasy of his masterpiece toppling over.

It's not long before the sound of crashing ensues and Moriarty is stroking his fluffy hair and praising him in soft, baby-tones, secretly proud of his little pint-sized rascal, when he accepts an 'urgent' call, only to be blackmailed by another imprudent traitor with outdated information. The third this week. Not as cocky as the others, that's true, but just as annoying. More precious father and son bonding time interrupted by a thumping-on-his-chest, insolent buffoon.

His patience is understandably wearing thin.

"Listen to me, you little shit," Moriarty retorts after a shaky voice delivers his demands. This one is more like a sheep following the herd than his previous callers, but he's not the tending shepherd - he's the wolf they're trying to force into sheep's clothing, and Moriarty will sooner devour him than submit.

"You, kind sir, are nothing more than spineless scum," he croons, faint and chillingly impassive. "Remember that. Remember what I can do. You think you've seen the worst of me, Bobby-dear?" He gives a gentle chuckle, effortlessly belittling. "If you fuck this up, I swear to God, I will personally pry off your fingernails one by one and use them to gouge out your goddamn eyeballs - and that's just an amiable taster between friends." There's a dry gulp, a ragged exhale. Oh, how he loves a good spook. "Now does that sound _fair _to you, honey, or are you still planning to back out of a more than charitable deal?"

_Ding, ding, ding. _Door number three, please.

It's not the cash prize, nothing life-changing, but at least he'll _have _a life. There's no mystery. No mystery in death. Moriarty doesn't take kindly to threats; he makes good on his word.

They shouldn't expect anything less.

"Oh," the consulting criminal grins a shark-like grin, tone almost sultry. "And piece of advice, next time you wish to spout off threats you can't possibly follow through on, try to sound a little more menacing, will you, darling? It's no fun if the person seems like they're about to piss themselves. For a minute there, I didn't know whether you were threatening me or inviting me for tea. Though, do try to avoid any clichés - no maniacal laughter, please. We're not in a bloody cartoon." And with that, he rolls his eyes and hangs up.

By now, he hopes the meaning is clear: stay low, off his radar, and maybe, if you're extremely fortunate, Moriarty might spare your worthless ass.

If not, then the consulting criminal will be all-too happy to drill the message into anyone unwilling to conduct themselves appropriately. He's dependable like that.

Alas, it seems as if people have lost all sense of self-preservation and they've already proven to be so dense as to act without perspicacity, gunning for the key player because conjecture rather than testimony pronounces him vulnerable. They are undisciplined, governed by concentrated desire for power, and that will be their downfall.

They will try to bully him and they will not succeed.

Let us pray, then, instead, they are fast learners.

Glancing down at the wide-eyed child perched on his lap, Moriarty cuddles the warm body close

-_asackofbonesabloodbagadelicatenecktosnap_

_locatetheaccuratepressurepointsyouknowyoucan_-

And murmurs against his temple, "I'm sorry you had to hear that, munchkin. Daddy was talking to a very bad man and he said some words which you must never, ever repeat to anyone, okay? He just lost his temper a little bit."

Sherlock hesitates, biting his lip, then nods slowly.

"Daddy, he mean to you?" he asks, ever the upright citizen wishing to rationalize his father's less than honourable deeds, curiosity saturating his childish voice as he fiddles nervously with his fingers and wrinkles a thoughtful brow.

Beginning to absentmindedly massage the youngster's scalp in a manner that could easily be constructed as comforting, the man deadpans, "He told me he hopes I step on Lego sometime in the foreseeable future. It wasn't very nice."

Sherlock's eyes pinch around the edges. "Did he reawy?" _Or is this just you hinting that I need to tidy up my room again? _His non-verbal question is noticeable in the downward slight slanting of his chin, the disbelieving note to his tone, a whole octave higher, and the suspicious tightening around his mouth.

He knows him too well. It's exhausting.

Moriarty shrugs. "May as well have for all of the unimaginable terror it caused me."

Sherlock recognises the dull sarcasm for what it is - thinly veiled annoyance, liable to detonate with the lightest of contact and programmed to obliterate everything within a ten foot radius - and it never ceases to amaze Moriarty that he can be an average two-year old one minute and a miniature detective complete with a built-in lie-detector the next. It often leaves him enormously conflicted.

"Sad Daddy?" Sherlock tentatively reasons, turning and snuggling close, practically face-planting against the man's chest, who pats his back rhythmically. He mangles his Daddy's shirt with one hand while he waits for the answer.

As is customary, the man falls back on nonsensical babble. It is not a method of consoling himself, he is adamant, nor is it an issue. Moriarty simply likes it, nothing more, nothing less. It is what it is.

"Daddy's little munchkin," Moriarty melodiously coos, planting a kiss on the top of his head with a scarily fond smile hovering his lips. "You're so clever, aren't you? My special genius, isn't that right? Mycroft's such a silly billy, isn't he? Thinking he could ever take you away from me."

The old geezer had tried, gotten himself worked up in such a frenzy that he offered Moriarty (the alleged kidnapper in the equation; kidnappers always have a price) full immunity from his crimes should he come forward and a fairly hefty ransom he never petitioned for, which Moriarty had no misgivings about declining. To his knowledge, the elder Holmes is still trying and is unlikely to ever _stop _trying, resorting to detailed threats and reckless promises and then, when all else fails, flustered pleas that only served to arouse a piece of his anatomy that certainly doesn't correlate with pity - but that just makes it all the more satisfying.

Sherlock is stolen goods, apparently, and he's the bandit who'd be a fool to return his loot.

It could have all been avoided, of course, had he simply shot Dr. Watson rather than set him free, but that would have been a grave error on his part, considering how much fun he's had messing with them ever since. Moriarty enjoys living life on the edge and he wanted to give the sidekick the false hope of finding his chum and himself the pleasure of soiling their strategies and poking holes in their ambition.

The professional criminal's chancing fate, he knows, and revenge is so much more rewarding than a fruitful rescue mission, (and is quite the motivator, on top of that) so he probably shouldn't single-handedly rile all of the British Government and Scotland Yard up, but he's a roguish, sassy bastard who doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut.

Plus… he would hate to have to give his son up.

There's a chance he may have gotten mildly attached.

The boy in his arms slides his thumb into his mouth and worms around to get comfortable, entirely at ease - he knows he's not in any danger. His clinginess glares at Moriarty almost accusingly.

Maybe he has gone soft; maybe he has bitten off more than he can chew.

Maybe he's a better man, even if he's nowhere near a good one.

_Does _Moriarty care, though? That's the million dollar question. The trick question, with only one right answer.

It's not something that he lies awake at night pondering. He doesn't have dreams, he's only capable of nightmares - envious of the monsters that dwell in the dark and as equally disquieting as one. He's morally bankrupt, a despicable man. He exploits others' weaknesses and preys on their fears, voracious for entertainment.

He's the devil's reincarnation, robbing innocents of their souls without faltering, and never bothering to conceal the disdain which he wears like a polished crown for the nobodies that he cheats on a daily basis. Moriarty basically wrecks havoc on peoples' lives for a living and has no qualms about doing as such. Though, what's even sadder is how equally unconcerned he is about the future of his own.

He is callous, egocentric, utterly abhorrent - a fiendish villain to spark a cutesy fairytale. And everybody knows villains are undeserving of a scenic ride off into the sunset; they don't get tidy happily-ever-afters.

Are monsters sentiment beings? Does the devil need love to balance the hate? Is the villain more than a means to an end?

Moriarty doesn't toss and turn thinking about it.

All he knows is that later when he's scrolling through masses of emails on one phone while taking call after call on another subsequent to a big-bucks deal going south, knee-deep in damage control mode, and Sherlock gives a frustrated whine and reaches up on his tiptoes to grapple at his belt in a bid for his attention, Jim certainly feels a pang of something.

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><p>There is something about other people touching his stuff that Moriarty could never stand.<p>

He's in a conference room in Dubai seated at a long glass table, - one of his more professional settings in some time - and dressed in one of his finest suits, surrounded by other well-to-do specialists and a handful of lackeys (decorated muscle, really), having flown in that morning on his private jet at a moment's notice.

They're discussing how best to market the drug that Moriarty previously pitched to them, which is why no-one argues with the presence of his sweet Munchkin who he brought along because he didn't feel like being parted from him, and the possibility of overtly targeting a small number of politicians to ignite a greater public interest and raise the drug's profile. Hence, a greater profit.

As well as that, it's something juicy to divert the papers for a couple of weeks and keep some relentlessly nosy FBI agents and journalists off their scent, so that some other premeditated assassinations go down without a hitch. And if he delights in the creation of legendary scandals, then no harm done, right?

It's a risky endeavour that could easily backfire. In which case, Moriarty will wipe his hands clean off the whole thing - he already has several prospects lined up to take the fall if need be.

Sherlock is swiftly becoming bored in the enclosed space, dashing from one end of the room to the other and squishing his face against the expansive windows, fogging up the glass with puffs of breath quickened from overexertion and staring down over forty-eight floors, watching the commotion of dots on the streets.

He's been told off more than once, but the toddler is insatiable. It's rather cute.

In any case, it is only a matter of time before the tell-tale thump of the overexcited youngster tripping over his own feet. He pauses in shock for a second, then begins blinking rapidly, before the first sob tears from his throat, arms thrusting upwards for his Daddy instinctively.

Moriarty has a rule about settling him down, though. He always - and will always - wait a full five minutes. Even if Sherlock is yanking on his hand or screaming croaky, anguish-laden screams of Daddy, he will make him wait if only to demonstrate that he will not come running at his every beck and call, and undoubtedly not on an attention-seeking whim.

Confined to these unfamiliar surroundings, the only person he trusts having seemingly vanished into thin air, Sherlock is swamped by his feelings of hurt and anxiety. He kicks out his stout legs in aggravation and bawls, face crumpled in distress.

The other occupants of the conference room trade looks of discomfort, though none are so daring as to actually speak up against him.

After two solid minutes of howling, a business man develops a backbone, wincing as Sherlock prods his skinned, blood-strewn knees and flinches, and cautiously piping up in a thick, French accent, "Sir, shouldn't we, ah, do something…? He's bleeding." When he receives no reaction other than a nearly imperceptible straightening from Moriarty, he shifts to grasp the child on impulse, making the consulting criminal's features immediately harden. He's obviously got kid's of his own, that much is clear, but that doesn't mean that Moriarty will excuse him for his interference.

Before the French man can lay a single hand on his son, he declares, "Pick him up and I will tie a bow around your neck and string you up with your own intestines," with the deadliest of sinister tones, brown eyes undeniably cold - glittering with a stark, sealed promise.

The man freezes, then hastily retreats.

"Sorry, boys," he drawls completely devoid of regret. "Nobody moves a muscle, kapesh? Even should your ears start to bleed, you will stay right where you are and disregard his wounded squeals."

"But-"

"I mean it," he snarls. "No-one touches him but me." The hoarse cries grow louder. "Oh, did this little titbit fail to qualify for the rumour-mill? I'm a really lousy parent," he tells them, smirking at their identical pained expressions, "So sue me."

With each passing second, the air thickens with tension. It's pathetic - they're all crooks; they should be able to withstand the sight of a child's snotty tears. Bloody idiots.

Keeping an eye on his Rolex, Moriarty stands at the five-minute mark. When a hum of relieved exhales sound, he glowers, to which they quickly back-pedal and offer up weak, strained smiles.

Moriarty scoops the youngster up and bounces him gently to appease his cries, uttering indulgent words of reassurance, "Shh.. It's alright, it's alright. Daddy's here now," while his munchkin sniffles and hiccups, burrowing his wet face in his neck.

He's proving a point, forcing him to wait and reinforcing his position of authority. Moriarty's taking the upper-hand, he's being a dick for no reason.

He doesn't do it to make him need him more.

"Daddy," Sherlock burbles amongst other slurred rambling, clutching tightly at his expensive tie and shaking his head distraughtly. "No go, Daddy."

Moriarty kisses his charming, little button-nose and allows his lips to curve liberally.

Bingo.

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><p><em>Thank-you for reading.<em>

_Please let me know what you think; I really appreciate any feedback._


	3. Holding Back The Fire

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**Holding Back The Fire**

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><p><strong>AN: **I should really be studying for my mock-exams right now rather than writing this, or at least updating my other stories, but I have so many ideas knocking around in my head that I just had to get this out there. I hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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><p>Besides that first day, there have been many instances when Moriarty has fantasized about terminating his new life with the Munchkin - AKA terminating the life <em>of <em>his Munchkin. By and large, in the most violent style conceivable.

'Cause, hey, he never claimed to be merciful. If he were going to do it, he'd make damn sure that it wasn't a spilt-second decision, that their final moments together were a long way from tedious. It would be only fitting.

The first time Moriarty considers bashing the kid's head in and stuffing the carcass under the bed, it is thanks to the gusting _oof _as he is awakened by the air getting knocked out of him, kneecaps pressing down hard on his stomach, grabby hands clutching and tugging on his tee accompanied by impatient wriggling and light bouncing.

His first instinct is to tackle, to claw, _to kill_. But then it registers.

A babyish voice. His baby, to be precise. Annoying him. "Daddy, wake up! Wake up! It _Sunday_."

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday… he chants to himself - what's that thing about Sunday?

Throwing an arm over his eyes and wishing he could simply roll over and go back to sleep but knowing that that is never going to happen, Moriarty stifles a groan and instead mumbles, "It's a bit early for you to be up, don't you think, Munchkin?"

"Nuh-uh!" Cue frantic shaking of the head. "It bight, Daddy!"

"Hm, fool-proof reasoning, I'll bet," he smirks despite himself, even as he cracks open a lid and distinguishes the sunlight poking through the curtains unsolicited. But Christ, it's early.

"Go _park_, Daddy!" Sherlock reminds him, clamouring up higher on his chest and beginning to squash together the man's cheeks. Between this and the way he occasionally sticks a finger up his nostril curiously while he's sleeping or prods Moriarty's windpipe out of boredom, it's a wonder he hasn't accidentally - or bloody hell, purposely - killed the little bugger yet.

He _had_ promised to take him to the park, though. He's been exceedingly in demand the past two weeks, holed up in one of his lavish condos in London, and Sherlock's been getting rather angsty. The toddler has been exasperatingly cranky, refusing to do as instructed and treating himself to tantrum after tantrum, wherein Moriarty would lock him in his nursery until he shut the fuck up, _(shutupshutupshutupshutup) _although this often left the Munchkin pasted onto the consulting criminal afterwards.

He's lost count of how many video conferences he's had to conduct with the toddler napping on his lap, drool dribbling down his chin and onto Moriarty's cufflinks as he petted his dark hair like some exaggerated caricature of an unhinged baddie with a lazy cat to boot. It was dimly distracting. Especially in regards to the sleepy snuffles and muddled, drowsy Daddy's, which he had to pacify with gentle joggling of his knees.

Luckily, none of this was captured within the frame of the web-cam. Mustn't misguide the peasants, give the impression that he partakes in feelings. Or Jesus, that he's remotely sentimental. Getting fucking soppy or something. That wouldn't help his street-cred.

Then one day he stumbled upon the little boy seated amongst stuffed animals with toilet paper for bandages wrapped around their limbs and an array of plastic, green soldiers, clinking two revolvers together and his heart dropped to his shoes.

"No, naughty Munchkin," he'd scolded, furious, snatching the guns out of his grubby hands. His breaths were fast, deep. "Where on earth did you find these? These are Daddy's toys; not yours, understand? If I ever see you with these ever again, you won't be able to sit for weeks-" _Because you'll be dead. You'll be dead. Don't you get it? These could kill you. You'd. Be. Dead._ "-Do I make myself clear?"

"Bored, Daddy," he whispered, lip wobbling. "Like you."

Moriarty scrubbed his forehead, a tremor running through his hands as he scrutinized his son - not for injuries, never for injuries.

Still…There was this glint in Sherlock's eyes that promised the eminent destruction of everything that came into his possession if Moriarty failed to entertain - like he knew _exactly _what he was doing. It was foreboding... And with lightening speed, the man took inventory of every tenuously breakable thing within the mini-devil's reach and grasped with total certainty that turning his back on the Spawn for even an instant would guarantee their painful demise.

It occurred to him that maybe he ought to let the child release some pent-up energy in a safe environment, away from the many weapons he has stored around his home, where he'd _thought_ they'd be secure (he'd even hired some experts to child-proof his various residences. Now, he realized that that didn't have any bearing whatsoever on whether or not the buildings were _Sherlock_-proof. They were evidently two separate matters entirely).

The Munchkin could also perhaps benefit from the fresh air. His skin seemed far too pale.

Energized himself at the prospect, Moriarty'd proposed, "Would you like a chance to be _ordinary_, Sherlock?" Ordinary father and son day out, playing catch and feeding the duckies. Hilarious.

The cheek of it.

"Odi'nay?" He stared blankly.

"Ordinary," Moriarty corrected automatically, fingers steepled meditatively under his chin. "Yeah, let's be ordinary," he proclaims. "It's so _ob_vious - hidden in plain sight. What a lark." The consulting criminal then hoisted the boy up and with one of his tiny hands clasped in his much larger one, began gaily dancing, spinning around and laughing, sporadically tossing the youngster up into the air and catching him, lavishing him with brief, affectionate kisses.

Oh, they'd go to the park. They'd gamble with his parental custody. He won't hide, he's no coward. He will not be silenced.

He could feel the adrenaline, the rush, the blood pumping in his veins.

He could do it.

All of a sudden, the silvery music was brought to a standstill and he deposited the Munchkin on the floor as abruptly as he'd man-handled him.

His smile slipped. "Tut, tut, Mycroft," Moriarty stated, unexpectedly livid. "Trying to pinch my son. Tut tut."

Sherlock just threw him a look to let him know in no uncertain terms that he was insane (touché, little one. Touché). His dubious expression coupled with budding, shameless arrogance (a mere seedling planted in the seemingly perfect conditions, so easy to stamp out should he so desire), and blunt absence of respect gave Moriarty pause - disgruntled or overjoyed by the similar mannerisms? He couldn't be sure.

But the youngster perked up a bit once he revealed what being 'Ordinary' entailed. He'd forgotten for a moment that Sherlock wouldn't remember their past conversations, wouldn't remember his contempt for ordina-

A light tapping on his nose snaps him back to the present.

Moriarty jerks.

"'Kay, Daddy?" Sherlock asks worriedly, breath hot on his face, brows knitted. He finds he doesn't want to gut him anymore.

"I'm fine, Munchkin, it's okay," he assures, caressing the kid's cheek with one thumb. "Daddy was just thinking."

Sherlock falls back, immediately comforted. Thinking, yes - that he could relate to.

"Alright, well, let's go get you changed, then we'll grab breakfast and head out, okay? How's that sound?"

With a petulant huff, the child pouts and protests, "No wet, Daddy!"

"Yeah, and my guns shoot rainbows," he mutters, eying the nappy sagging slightly at the toddler's waist. "Now put that face away. Daddy hasn't had his morning coffee yet," he sing-songs, "And he's grumpy enough to spank you if you don't behave."

"No wan spank, Daddy!"

"No-one ever _wants _spanke- Well..."

Seeing Sherlock's little frown deepen, Moriarty rolls his eyes and smiles, ruffling his hair, before taking hold of the youngster under the armpits and lifting him up as he untangles himself from his sheets and stands. "Okay, cheeky, you win. No spankings. But you do need to be changed; there's no getting around it."

Grabbing a nappy from the small stack in the bathroom under the sink, Moriarty lies the toddler down on the changing mat and removes the previous one, giving him a stern look as he begins to unhappily squirm. Sherlock's always been resistant to these changes. It's not really a surprise, given how independent he yearns to be (despite how infantile he is. Absurd) and how little independence he actually receives. Next year when he's three Moriarty will potty-train him, but for now, this is their routine.

He wipes him clean with ease and after a sprinkling of fresh baby powder that makes him choke a little, tapes on a thick new nappy. Patting his padded bottom almost unthinkingly, he then raises his Munchkin up into a comforting hold, who pops his thumb into his mouth and drapes over his shoulder, gripping the back of the man's mussed, bed hair and kneading reflexively.

He would never admit it, of course, but Moriarty does enjoy these moments. At least, he thinks he does.

He likes the smell of his son's soft skin, the warmth of their closeness, the way Sherlock snuggles into him.

He knows that he trusts him, relies on him, learns from him. Loves him and only him.

It makes Moriarty swallow slightly.

His Munchkin. His Sherlock.

His everything.

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><p>While at the park with Sherlock he finds the urge to strangle him has once again returned.<p>

As per instructions, the youngster hangs on Moriarty's hand, jumping over puddles (And failing. Every. Singe. Time. There's always a little splash-back) and swinging their arms between them, babbling about everything and anything, mouth going a hundred miles a minute, tripping over itself.

It's giving Jim a headache.

Sherlock yammers on about photo-synthesis and pigeons and honey bee's mortality and

_Didyouknowdidyouknowdidyouknowdidyouknow_

And local immigrating patterns and earthworms and minerals in rocks and the likelihood of ever getting attacked by one breed of dog versus another, because you just _know, _how could you not _know_-look at those teeth, Daddy-

"That's enough," he finally barks, jaw clamped forcefully. He yanks on his hand and pulls him up short.

Sherlock flinches.

"I get it. The park is very interesting. You've been cooped up inside for too long, everything's new and shiny. I _get it." _He sounds animalistic, inhuman. A hiss, scarcely a voice.

Then, as he watches on, tears begin to well up in his Munchkin's eyes, incisive blue glistening dolefully. Bright with betrayal. And Moriarty sags, gut clenched with an emotion he can't quite pinpoint. Not remorse - he's not capable of remorse. But something. Something he'd very much like to go away.

Plunging a hand into his hair and tugging, he takes a great, calming breath and says evenly, "I'm sorry, Munchkin. Daddy's cranky; he just snapped. You know, I love listening to you ramble."

"S'okay," Sherlock sniffs, kicking a pebble. "Me okay."

Moriarty loosens his grip on the small hand and frowns as Sherlock slides free, massaging and rolling his left shoulder. He thinks he sees pain flit across his features before he buries it. He wonders how hard he pulled.

"How about we go get some ice-cream?" he suggests, forcing a sugary smile. _Just take my hand, Sherlock. Please. Take my hand and we'll be alright. I'm sorry. I won't hurt you again. _Maybe his thoughts are conveyed in his eyes, maybe his tone is tinged with regret, maybe the boy believes that it's only natural, expected, but Sherlock accepts his outstretched hand.

The toddler still remains icy towards him for a further hour, refusing to stand too close, shoulders hunched defensively. His breaths are as shallow as Moriarty's smiles.

But eventually when Moriarty encourages him to climb this wooden structure that looks remarkably like a pirate ship, Sherlock begins giggling and play-fighting, pretend sword swooping and jabbing dangerously. He scampers around, dark head bobbing excitedly as he flees for his life, and then begs Moriarty to join in, who does so somewhat reluctantly. This soon gives way to a tiring game of chase, the man pursuing the toddler, who shrieks gleefully.

He snags the back of the kid's shirt and drags him backwards, before mercilessly tickling his writhing torso, matching grins on their faces the entire time. Playful squeals and choked pleas - it's so alarmingly harmless. When Sherlock's skin becomes a little too pink, he stops and rights his rumpled clothes, announcing that it's time to try something else.

By the time the little boy dives down the slide and Jim holds out his arms to catch him, it seems all is forgiven, if not forgotten.

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><p>He didn't get caught that day. Or another.<p>

If he's frank, Moriarty is sort of disappointed in Mycroft's surveillance; never once did their outings feel oppressive. But he knows when not to push his luck and flies into New York the following Tuesday, worn out from juggling all of his responsibilities as a criminal master-mind and a single father.

It's tougher than one might think, but he can handle it.

He has bad days, though. And as everybody knows, when he's bad, he's very bad. There is no in-between.

Sometimes he pictures blood pooling from underneath Sherlock's lolling head, a bullet lodged deep into his developing skull, brains leaking knowledge. He imagines slicing the delicate tissue of his throat, envisions ripping open his stomach-

_'Daddy, daddy! Stop! Top it!' he shrieks, kicking his chunky legs, 'No more. No more!'_

_'Why?' he grins, leers, 'I thought you loved it when I blow raspberries?'_

_Another breathy gust on his cute little bellybutton and breathless, gurgling laughter. Harmless, harmless fun_

- and fishing out the insides, gory, crimson entrails. He visualizes himself in a million different scenarios torturing and slaughtering and having fun. He wets his lips in anticipation; he is famished. He could chop off those chubby little pinkie's of his, those wriggly little toes -

_this little piggy went to the market_

_this little piggy stayed home_

_this little piggy had roast beef_

_This little piggy had none_

_And this little piggy cried wee, wee, wee all the way home!_

-And it would be so natural for him to smile as he's doing so, harmless, harmless fun. He doesn't want to; he wants to so, so very much - it's maddening. Once he selects a target… Well, that's it. They're a goner. And he selected Sherlock so very long ago…

But that was the Sherlock Holmes of before. _This _Sherlock, on the other hand, is his son in everything but blood.

He matters to him.

Moriarty is suddenly struck by an image, suddenly sickened by the idea of weighing up the pros and cons, as he recalls the engrossed, exhilaration of his Munchkin's features when Moriarty gifted him with all of the tools necessary for his first experiment - a junior science kit. Blah - and how he'd then launched himself at the man's legs, hugging fiercely. He'd bent down to Sherlock's eye-level and cast keen eyes over his youthful glee, soaking up the soft eagerness and filing the expression away forever. And when Jim gave the tiny body a squeeze, it wasn't death, it wasn't asphyxiation, it wasn't _You're a dead man now, Sherlock._

It was a cuddle.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading. Please review.<em>


	4. Childish Love

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**Childish Love**

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><p><strong>AN: **So this is a story which I could wrap up very shortly, _or _I could continue, if you guys want to throw me some prompts. If you've got an idea you'd like to see, then by all means, lay it on me, and I'll see what I can do.

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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><p>Curls of dark hair tickle his skin as he pats and rubs his son's lower back, who has sprawled quite comfortably over his chest and bumped his head securely under Moriarty's chin, crowding his personal space with casual disregard for his shrivelled ability to breathe - boundaries between father and son just don't exist any more, if they ever did.<p>

A small hand tiredly fondles his shirt, while the other suspends from his mouth, thumb bobbing and generating a never-ending stream of gummy drool.

The irony is not lost on him.

"H-had b-bad dweam, Daddy," Sherlock had stammered as Moriarty blinked blearily at the blurry figure standing at the foot of his bed, fidgeting on the spot and twisting the hem of his Mike the Knight pyjamas between his fingers anxiously. Tears dripped from his lashes and his chin box quivered as he struggled to stay strong for his Daddy like a big boy.

And he, playing his role to a tee, had picked him up and sympathetically soothed, "Aww, c'mere, sweetheart. Shh. It's okay. I've got you. Daddy'll keep you safe," before cradling the little boy close, gazing down at the arched, shivering form with a forceful glimmer of protectiveness which should have made him worried, but instead, felt strangely natural.

"Nothing's going to hurt you, baby," he'd swore, but that wasn't quite true.

Lately, he's heard whispers. There's been talk, - just talk, maybe, he's not sure, and he's not willing to take the risk - of a possible bounty being placed on his Sherlock, dead or alive - that's how these things usually work, isn't it? Some unhappy customers have been calling for his head on a stick for weeks now and it wouldn't exactly come as a shock to learn that the outmoded angry mob have decided to target his son instead. It gives the rumours an ounce of credibility, unfortunately, and thus, he's updated their security measures, all precautions have been taken, no expense has been spared, and yet…

Bull's-eyes and all that. You never know what's enough until it _isn't_.

Moriarty sighs.

At the movement, his Munchkin stirs, batting clumsily at his late-night stubble and snuffling, before going limp once more as he softly shushes him. Moriarty stretches the youngster's fuzzy, baby blue blankie over the little boy's shoulders to ensure he's warm and cosy and without thinking, grazes his lips over the toddler's crown.

Knowing how difficult it is for his Munchkin to sleep without one, he'd bought several identical blankets in case of emergency. He has one stored in his room for moments such as these, another stashed away in the go-bag he keeps on hand with a horde of other kiddie essentials for travelling, and the rest, Moriarty has stacked in cupboards all around his various homes.

Let no-one ever accuse him of not being thorough.

Had he ever had reason to give it any consideration, in the past Moriarty would have scoffed at the idea of becoming so _boringly_ domesticated. How dull. How ordinary. How _weak_.

It would have disgusted him.

Yet, now…now he enjoys his mornings off when he can cut the crust off his son's toast and nurse his coffee as the over-stimulated child dances around his feet and almost chokes trying to wolf down his food as quickly as possible. He'll tug on his pants and moan at Moriarty to hurry up, rolling his eyes and tsking as the consulting criminal moves at a snail's pace on purpose. Then he'll sprint off ahead of him when he finally - _finally, _Sherlock has been known to grumble - finishes his breakfast and sets down his I-pad.

Sherlock is always so eager and so _proud_ to parade his latest project for his Daddy (the most recent being The Magic Ketchup Experiment, if you're interested. It was a disaster), and never disappoints in his joy at having him around for that infinitesimal hour or so extra.

Moriarty has taken to ruffling his hair and verbally applauding his achievements - not because he cherishes his Munchkin's pleased beam, or cares that Sherlock values his opinion, or because is glowing with pride himself. No, he merely wishes to foster his confidence so that when the fall comes, - and it _will come, _believe him - he will fall that much farther.

Least that's what he tells himself.

The man has grown to love the evenings when he settles down in front of the telly with Sherlock snuggled up beside him, bouncing in his lap and chatting his ear off. There's work to do, always more work to do, but when he walks in and a gasp, or a squeal, or long-winded chants of _'Daddydaddydaddydaddy,' _pierce the air and he braces himself as a tiny body launches itself at him - all bets are off.

Moriarty welcomes the boy's wet kisses and toothless smiles and sticky handprints smudged all over his impeccable suit. He doesn't know how, but it's moments like those that makes him realise: fatherhood _suits _him. It's moments like those that make him realise he adores the affection.

Jim rubs his cheek against the youngster's head and smirks.

Yes, he is grateful in life for the simple things.

Moriarty even has a new appreciation for nightmares. Because at night, in the dark when every fear is heightened, nightmares are one of the few things that can still make his little boy cry.

And when his little boy cries, there's only ever one person Sherlock will ever seek out to comfort him, just as there's only ever one person that Moriarty will ever comfort whenever he seeks it.

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><p>After weeks of ignoring the cheesy, picture books Moriarty purchased on a whim and throwing a strop if the task was ever suggested during a trying period where he won't stop complaining about the boredom, one day out of the blue Sherlock decides to try 'colouring.'<p>

He flips the pages to cheery outline of a pirate walking the plank (because _of course _it would be pirate-themed) and selects three chunky crayons, yellow, green and blue, before beginning.

For some reason, this amuses Moriarty greatly.

Maybe it is because he seemed so adverse to the idea for so long, maybe because he looks so darn _cute_ tapping the stump of the crayon to his chin like that, but it gives the man an absurd amount of pleasure to see his Munchkin indulge in the childish task.

While he works, Sherlock gulps down a grapefruit juice box and munches on some triangular sandwiches, with Moriarty interrupting only once to scrub his hands and face with a cloth. It takes a solid hour before the boy pronounces the picture finished, topping the drawing off with a simple _Love you, Daddy _scrawled in the far right corner, letters shaky and differing in size, his eyes squinting as he concentrates extra hard.

Over his shoulder, his father presses his lips together to bury a smile. And if Moriarty's heart just so happens to melt on sight, it's not as if he would ever experience any desire to admit it.

Then, for some bizarre reason, Sherlock suddenly decides that Moriarty should colour, too.

"Will you, Daddy?" he begs, blue eyes ample and obnoxious. "_Peas _will you hewp me?"

"No, Sherlock. I told you. I'm busy-"

His eyes widen impossibly further. "_Peas_." The toddler gazes up at him beseechingly, jiggling the corner of his Dad's shirt, which he clutches with one fisted hand.

Moriarty's smile, he will deny to his very last breath, is not the least bit pathetic and dopey. "Alright. Fine. Gawd. Just quit making goo-goo eyes at me, will you, love? There's only so much a man can take. I'll join you - knock myself out. Why not?"

Accustomed to his father's odd quirks, Sherlock simply shrugs off his comments, takes his hand and drags him over to table. He climbs up onto the chair and shoves the colouring book towards him, opening at a fresh page and thrusting a red pencil into the man's hand.

Moriarty whistles. "Well, look at you. Aren't you feeling all bold and fiesty today, Munchkin."

Nevertheless, he begins filling in the blank space of a cheeky parrot, glancing over at Sherlock occasionally to see that he is hard at work, too. It's nice.

They settle into a funny little pattern. Thursday soon becomes known as 'Colouring Day.'

And damn if it isn't one of the best parts of his week.

Following the success of that surpassingly pleasant Arts and Crafts session, on one Saturday morning in a hopeful bid to make a dent in his sizable workload, Moriarty opts to try something new.

It's a hit or miss idea, but one which could really pay off if it is indeed successful.

He mixes together plain flour and salt, then boils hot water and adds in both vegetable oil and blue food colouring, before combining the wet and dry ingredients and slowly stirring. Once thoroughly blended, he allows this to cool, then kneads the sticky clump, sprinkling an extra dash of flour, so that by the end, he is left with his own, homemade play-dough.

Then all he has to do is gather some blunt utensils, cups and bowls, step back and let the intriguing new substance work its magic.

Well… for all of five minutes.

At first, Sherlock excitedly pushes and prods the squishy slab, rolling it out with his chubby fingers and flattening it with his palms. But that loses its appeal pretty quickly, and Sherlock is forced to stretch his imagination, gradually becoming more and more inventive.

Before long, the youngster calls, "Look! Look, Daddy! Made a moat to pwotect the castle!"

"Very good, Munchkin. I see," he answers distractedly amid ironing out an odd wrinkle in his future plans, eyes fixed on his screen.

"You not looking!" Sherlock shoots back, gaze sharp and brows pulled down in annoyance.

"I _am_." Now. "It's wonderful, baby. Really."

Huffing in anger, Sherlock turns away and begins cramming squashy handfuls into a plastic cup and then hacks at it with a fork, beating and slicing and poking, bright blobs of blue sparking everywhere. Moriarty stops working to watch the frantic movements, eyes crinkling in amusement. Finally, he asks, "Uh... whatcha doing, Munchkin?"

"I'm making ice-cream!" he announces proudly.

Jim's lip quirks. "Really?"

"Uh-huh!" He nods eagerly. "It's blueberry."

He represses an eye roll. How original.

"Sounds fantastic, Munchkin."

Thrusting the cold lump under the consulting criminal's nose, Sherlock demands, "Smell!"

Rolling his eyes but playing along, Moriarty screws up his face and exclaims, "Ugh, that's disgusting!"

His son's big blue eyes shine with pleasure. Giggling madly, he gives the crumbling play-dough another stir, before placing a hand over the top and shaking the container. "How about now?"

Moriarty leans forward and pretends to cautiously sniff. "Mm, much better," he hums, warmth rising in his chest as the boy's face breaks into a delighted beam.

When the 'ice-cream' is served up in a plastic dish shortly after, Moriarty picks up a spoon and fake slurps the gloopy mixture up, grinning at Sherlock's ensuing, jubilant laughter.

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><p>As he does every night, Moriarty peers into his son' room to check on him before turning in himself.<p>

The sight that greets him chills the consulting criminal to the bone.

The sheets are tangled in a heap on the mattress, the nightlight shines softly, his floppy-eared, stuffed doggie, Wilber, lies overturned on his side, a goofy smile sown into it's fabric forever.

The bed is empty.

And he knows. Moriarty knows without evidence, without facts or witnesses or bribes or deductions. He knows that he is gone.

His shoulders shudder. His

His son is gone.

Colliding against the wall, Moriarty slides to the floor and pulls his knees to his chest. He wants to take action, take hundreds of phone calls so that others can find what's been taken, take revenge so that no-one would dare take what is his again.

Take because _look _what they've taken from him.

He wants to find the son of a bitch responsible and rip their head off. He wants to scream, cuss, kick, throw the most epic of epic fits. He wants to do something - _anything_.

But he can't. The pain is too great.

So he stares vacantly, silently, hugging his own limbs.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, Jim bows his head and he cries - _look who's human. _

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><p><em>Sorry, massively out of character at the end there, but hope everyone enjoyed.<em>

_Thank-you so much for the continued support. Please do leave a review as I have a number of stories on the go and they definitely keep me motivated. I appreciate every single ounce of feedback._


	5. Behind Enemy Lines

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**Behind Enemy Lines**

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><p><strong>AN: **Oh, wow. I fully expected to end the story after this chapter (I wasn't even supposed to write it in the first place!), but after the response to the last one, I thought it might be a good idea to write some more chapters which can stand as singular one-shots until people either get sick of my story alerts popping up in their inbox or I'm fresh out of ideas, whichever comes first. I don't know - but thank you for all the reviews! I can honestly say they are what kept this story alive and kicking, so thanks for being so awesome! I love in-denial Moriarty too.

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language. _

**Warning: **some disturbing content at the beginning involving a child! Please feel free to skim over it!

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><p><em>They immerse him in ice<em>

_Ears subdued with a shock of water, rushing to his mouth,_

_Cold. So cold._

Daddy! Daddy!

_He gags, he splutters, he retches up watery vomit_

_Howls for everything he's worth until his tear-ducts shrivel up into nothing._

_They never listen._

-I hear you-

_Chains bound tight. Mottled bruises._

_The tiny body can't take much more. Skin frost blue, drowning in shivers._

_They-_

DADDY! DADDY!

_Screams of anguish._

_Why won't you save me?_

-I-I'm _trying_-

_Until_

_Until-_

_Pleas are beyond him._

_Dark skies. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the stars. Too dense, too murky. The darkness envelops them completely._

_Then rain. Rain too heavy. Each drop pounds on his battered torso. A last, desperate attempt to resuscitate._

_Ultramarine eyes now a glassy lake. Encrusted with the ice that exhausted them._

_So still… So peaceful._

_A lie so great it's painful._

-I'm here now, I'm coming-

_Sprinting, diving, dropping to the ground_

_Gathering the limp child in his arms_

_Hugging tight._

-Please don't leave me-

_He pats frozen cheeks,_

_shakes and shakes and shakes_

_Empty eyes roll backwards. No matter how much he wills him to, his son won't__-_

_will never-_

_Wake. _

_Up-_

Moriarty bolts upright, breathing hard and drenched in sweat.

He doesn't sleep again.

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><p>As soon as he comes round, Sherlock scans the alien environment and cowers at the appearance of an unfamiliar figure. He's groggy and confused and the first words out of his mouth are a curt, fearful, "Who you?"<p>

"My name is John," he responds gently, advancing slowly and hunkering down. "Don't you remember me, Sherlock?"

"Get 'way!" Sherlock immediately screeches, scrambling backwards into the corner. "Wan my Daddy! Gimmie my Daddy!"

Concealing his surprise, John raises his hands in a gesture of surrender and gentles his expression even further. Wrapping his voice in comforting tones, he placates the hysterical young child, "Hey, hey. It's okay, kiddo. Calm down, you're safe now-"

"Daddy! Daddy! _Daddy_!" He kicks out his legs like a feral wildcat when the soldier attempts to approach and glares hotly.

Sighing, John stands and pinches the bridge of his nose. He is _so_ in over his head.

After months and months and months of worrying and searching and visualising nonstop vile, unspeakable scenarios, fretting that Sherlock could be dumped in a ditch somewhere, never to be seen again, he has no idea how to deal with _this_.

An amnesic, kid Sherlock screaming at the top of his lungs for his mortal enemy - where do you even begin?

"_DADDY_!"

"Lord have mercy on my soul," John mutters and wipes his brow.

Two hours later and he still hasn't made any headway. Sherlock continues to eye him sceptically and is rocking himself back and forth and chewing his thumbnail when Mycroft pays them a visit. He takes one long look at the scene and sighs, rich with disapproval and disappointment.

"John…why is he crying?" he asks flatly with a vaguely curious expression, flicking an accusatory glance his way. "I came to see if you'd made any progress. Evidently you have not."

"It's not my fault! I don't know what to do!" John fires back. "He won't stop bloody screaming for Moriart-"

At this, Sherlock's squeals start anew and grow shriller, harsh on his raspy throat. "DADDY! WAN DADDY!"

Quickly losing his patience, having burned that out over an hour ago, John fists his hair and unsympathetically hisses, "Your Daddy's not coming!"

Sherlock's shrieks abruptly cut off - shocked into silence.

Voice small and shaky, he peeks up at him from over the tops of his knees and asks, "No-no Daddy?"

"No Daddy," he confirms with a decisive nod, crossing his arms and taking a deep breath.

Astonishing the two men, Sherlock gives an agonised _wail_ and begins crying harder.

The sound is chilling.

As the toddler's face crumples with pure devastation, John rapidly begins regretting his rash words. Between hiccups and salty tears, he repeats over and over _and over _again, "Daddydaddydaddydaddy. M'sorry Daddy."

"Fantastic, Doctor," the elder Holmes comments mildly, ending the horrified hush that had fallen over the pair. "Well done. And here I thought you were _good _with children."

He stiffens, shoving away the guilt. "I don't see you doing any better!"

"Fix. It," Mycroft commands, before sending a faintly concerned look his brother's way and leaving.

Sherlock is still shaking, teeth clattering and runny snot leaking from his nostril when John braces himself and says, "I'm sorry, buddy. I didn't mean to yell."

The little boy tries to stifle his sobs and he whispers in a cracking voice, "Daddy…D-daddy dead?"

He stumbles back, stunned. "What? No! _Jesus_. You-you've got it all wrong. Your…your Daddy, he had to, ah, go away. On-on business. He sent me to take care of you."

Stilling at once, Sherlock narrows his eyes and states with utmost certainty, "Daddy dun do that."

John's lost. "Huh?"

"Daddy say bye." Oh, for the love of-

"He didn't have time," the older man explains patiently.

Sherlock continues as if he didn't hear him, "_And _you not on the list. Me know. Me saw it."

"Li-list?" John shakes his head to focus. He will not be outwitted by a two-year old. "It was a last minute decision-"

"You took me." It's not framed as a question. He states it like a fact.

Aw, shit.

"No," John splutters. This has just taken a horrible turn for the worse. "I didn't-"

"My Daddy donna get you. He find me and he oot you balls off."

"Sherlock!"

"He'd do it."

With those steady, menacing eyes fixed on his, John is inclined to believe him. "You know, for someone so cute, you sure are scary when you're threatening me."

"No like 'oo," Sherlock huffs, turning away with a wavering lower lip.

He rubs his forehead. "That…that much is clear."

After that, Sherlock refuses to talk beyond blubbering a few words here and there, mostly variations of, 'Wan my Daddy,' or, 'You not my Daddy,' or even, 'My Daddy tome get me 'oon.' He appears to be very much stuck in that possessive, hero-worship stage, (though at times it feels like he emphasises the 'my' solely to piss him off) and it's soon made _abundantly_ clear that nothing in the world means more to him than that jackass Moriarty.

He doesn't know whether to feel heartbroken or seriously ticked off.

Sherlock also rejects any food that's brought to him and amuses himself by throwing ripped up scraps at John when he comes in.

He fights so incredibly hard during nappy changes that Sherlock could warrant being sedated - and to his shame, John almost wishes he could be. But holy hell, that kid can _bite._

Mycroft arranges for a therapist to come evaluate him, who wastes no time diagnosing the young child with Stockholm Syndrome, but all John can see is a scared little kid who just wants his Daddy. From the medical exam, he knows that Sherlock was never abused and that, quite frankly, confounds him. In all his wildest imaginations, John would never have dreamed that Moriarty would be the kind of kidnapper (or Christ, _father_) to huddle up and read cosy bedtime stories, but going by Sherlock's complete inability to sleep without some special 'magic' blanket, he might very well have been.

He begins to question of what benefit this is to anyone. It's with a heavy heart that John must acknowledge this entire experience had been extremely distressing for the frightened child and could be doing more harm than good.

God, Sherlock was _happy _with Moriarty - and he can't believe he ever thought that. He must be going mental.

It's just that... Nothing is what he'd expected. Nothing is making any sense.

Then one day while trying to coax the youngster out of bed, he plucks up the courage to request, "Can I ask you one thing, Sherlock? Please. I'd really appreciate it if you could answer me truthfully."

Sherlock peers up at him with a hard, distrustful set to his mouth that makes him wince internally.

"Did Moria-" He pauses to rephrase. "Did your Daddy…?" He blows out a breath, then finally settles on, "Was he good to you?"

Sherlock arches over into the foetal position. Voice muffled against the pillow, he toys with a loose thread and replies, "He call me Munkin."

John exhales noisily and frowns.

What does any of this _mean_?

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><p>He still can't sleep and he doesn't want to.<p>

He misses choking back a charmed laugh as Sherlock stumbles around with his shoes on the wrong feet and then sitting the little boy down and gently correcting them. He misses spraying under the bed at night with 'Monster Deterrent' (otherwise known as water) to scare all the bad monsters away. He misses when Sherlock clambers up onto the couch to play with his fingers, forcing him to tap out an email one-handed.

Moriarty misses his son. Dearly.

During the day he uses all of his connections available and more, calling in favour after favour to look for him (his rage does admittedly help fuel those creative death threats) and at night, Moriarty curls up on his son's bed and wraps himself in the toddler's cherished blankie. He stays up nursing a glass of whiskey while reviewing security tapes and trying to taper down something that feels irreparably broken inside of him.

Especially as he unconsciously manipulates the soft, fuzzy fabric in what seems remarkably reminiscent of an attempt at self-comfort.

Then, mere moments away from throwing in the towel and drinking himself into oblivion, Moriarty spots something out of his peripheral vision. He zooms in on the target and enhances the indistinct picture.

_Well_, _well, well,_ he leans forward and rubs his hands together. What have we got here?

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><p>This time when he opens the door, he knows exactly what - or more accurately, who - is waiting for him.<p>

After his discovery, his clue, their mistake, it took Moriarty all of three hours to track down the assclowns once he identified who was behind his son's well-orchestrated disappearance.

To say he was livid would be an immense understatement - though if he were honest, Jim might confess to feeling a tad thankful that his son has been in relatively good hands even if he personally yearns to claw their eyes out for their misguided best intentions.

The security personal have all been taken out and Moriarty estimates he's got ten minutes tops before John realises something is wrong. He's in no rush.

He creeps over to the crib _(prison) _and leans over the bars, his teeth clamping at the sight of his little one wide awake at three in the morning.

Sherlock's face lights up when he sees him and he cries, "D-daddy!" craning and squirming and kicking away his restrictive blanket _(puke yellow and all kinds of sinful) _in a frantic bid to make contact. His fingertips finally brush against his ear and accidentally poke Jim's lip, who doesn't even notice when his lips begin to take the shape of the most damning of damning smiles, fond and appallingly gentle.

Heaving himself upwards, Sherlock throws his arms around him at the same time that Moriarty lifts him out, fisting the back of his shirt. Releasing a ragged sigh, Moriarty strokes the youngster's trembling frame and peppers his face with kisses.

"I missed you. Daddy missed you so much, baby."

"D-d-daddy," he sniffles, clinging to him desperately. "You didn-didn' tome. 'Cared."

"Shh, I know, I know. I'm so sorry. I'm here now. Daddy's never leaving you again," he murmurs, erasing hot tears with the pad of his thumb and resting his chin on his head. Sherlock cuddles into his father's chest, thumb delving deeper into his mouth as he is calmed by the familiar musky scent with crisp, woodsy tones.

Moriarty continues rocking and soothing the exhausted toddler, tracing circles on his back, who eventually falls asleep to the sound of his Daddy's quiet voice, crooning

_Star light, star bright_

_The first star I see tonight_

_I wish I may, I wish I might_

_Have the wish I wish tonight_

Moriarty's heart squeezes as his Munchkin yawns and absently snuggles into the warmth of his neck. He blinks rapidly, eyes pricking. Safe in his arms, the relief threatens to sweep him away.

Christ, this kid.

What in heaven's name is he doing? None of this is right. Or maybe it's so right that it's wrong, he doesn't know. He has a pretty skewed view of both of them.

For the first time in a long time, Jim feels doubt.

He doesn't like it.

All of a sudden, John bursts into the room with his gun drawn and proud, spoiling the moment. He freezes at the sight of the father and son's reunion, flabbergasted.

He opens and closes his mouth. "How…? What on earth is happening right now?"

"Oh, hi there, John." His razor sharp eyes pore over the smaller man with noticeable distaste. "Jim Moriarty, contract killer at your service. Lest you've forgotten."

"Goodness, no." He visibly pulls himself together and swallows his surprise, Adam's apples bobbing. "Seem to recall quite a few fatalities last time we bumped into each other. My, ah, my memory is still perfectly intact, thank you."

"Good, good," he mutters, "Glad to hear it."

John slowly lowers his gun.

Eventually, never relaxing, he demands, "What are you doing here, Moriarty?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just thought I'd pop in. See how you're keeping. How is your sister, by the way? Still scraping by on minimum wage? Well, that is the economy for you." The man rolls his eyes and snorts, dropping the politely interested tone. "What do you think I'm doing, you imbecile? Talk about daft questions. You didn't seriously think I was going to let you walk away with him just like that, did you? You must be joking."

"Well, um," John scratches his nose. "There was always the possibility you'd, er, gotten bored playing house. I'd hoped it might be a welcome load off your shoulders."

"Did you now?" The consulting criminal purses his lips. "That's very thoughtful of you."

John clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly, glancing off into the distance. "I try."

"Yes, yes, very admirable. Your gun?"

The soldier jerks at the sudden change of topic. "Right here."

"That's nice. Handy, too," he remarks, before gently easing a dead to the world Sherlock down on the bed. He pries his fingers off his shirt, cards featherlike fingers through his hair, then pulls away. "Well. While we're on the subject, you might as well shoot me now," Moriarty suggests in a cavalier manner, somehow managing to maintain an effortless air of flippancy despite the tense atmosphere. "Even you know there's no way those blundering dumbos can keep someone like me locked up forever. I mean…_Yeesh_. Do you know how long it took them to locate me? That's tragic even by Scotland Yard's standards. Yeah, I'll admit, it's been hilarious watching those amateurs pursue countless hoax leads and run around in circles like silly widdle puppies chasing their own tails, but _come on_. How embarrassing."

"There's nothing for you here, Moriarty," the soldier says stiffly, shoulders squared in defiance. "Go find some new obsession to fritter away your time. Leave us alone."

"It's not as straightforward as that, Stud Muffin. Do keep up." Blazing stare connecting with his, Moriarty prowls forward and his voice warps into a furious snarl, "You wanna hide him away? Fine. But I will _never _stop searching for him. I will _never _give up on my son. So you better make away with me now, Doctor. Otherwise, stay the hell away from what's mine."

"I'll do it," John warns, steadily raising his gun and training the weapon on the other man. "Don't push me."

"Do you think so?" Expression turning thoughtful, he massages his chin and pokes his cheek with his tongue. "You're _really _going to traumatise an innocent little tot by shooting his father in cold blood right in front of him? Deep sleeper though he may be, I have a sneaking suspicion Sherlock won't sleep through a gun shot."

John glowers at him fiercely.

"Nah," Moriarty flutters hand, letting loose a frivolous smirk, "I'm not so convinced the brave little veteran soldier has the guts. Sounds a bit _insensitive_ to me. Not to mention, you'd be single-handedly destroying any chance of teeny Sherlock trusting you - or, well, anyone - ever again. Not after something like that. No matter what lies you spin him. You'll be the bad guy. The big ol' meanie who murdered his father."

"You are _not _his Dad," John asserts quickly, voice dark and nearing a growl.

"Quite so," Jim agrees, ducking his head and slipping his hands in his pockets. "See - I'm much more than that. I'm his primary caregiver, his substitute mother, his friend, his playmate, his confident, his hero, his role model, his protector…Shall I go on? It's a moderately impressive résumé, if I do say so myself."

"What you are is delusional," John snaps. "Nothing more than a blasted infatuated lunatic."

Waggling a disapproving finger, Moriarty tsks, "Now, now. Settle down. No need to get nasty. We're all gentlemen here." At the other man's incredulous, blustering sigh, he adds with mock regret, "I know how terribly you'd like to believe I'm some monstrous captor, Doctor. Say it ain't so and all that. But denial truly isn't a good look for you. Green's more your colour. Brings out your eyes."

"Oh, go screw yourself."

"Hey, you're the one who spent the past five days with the kid. You tell me: did he twist his curls before bedtime? Tug his ears very much? Did he even sleep at all? He does that, you know. When he's missing me. Sherlock likes to stroke my face or pull on my hair before he can nod off - it's so darling. There's also the unfortunate matter of his blankie, I trust you understand. Pity you couldn't have grabbed one of his spares when you broke into his home and abducted him. Would've made the whole process go a lot smoother."

"_I_ am not the kidnapper here!" He stabs a finger to his chest, face contorting as veins pop up from under his skin so irately that Moriarty is almost alarmed that it will split from the pressure. "_I_ am not the-the _murdering __**psychopath**_!"

"That's the spirit. Get it all out. What's the use in bottling everything up, hey, Sugar?" Moriarty chuckles softly, almost purring. "Don't worry about hurting my poor, humble feelings or anything. I can take it."

Jaw cast in rigid infuriation, John shakes his head tightly and grits, "You arrogant bastard."

Eyes slimming in amusement, a small smirk grabs hold of his lips like a hook - tugging and tugging, before levelling into an expression of playful glee. He wets his lips, brown eyes dancing.

"Face it, John. I got to him first. Sherlock's loyalty is to me and only me. I am going to stroll out of here in one dashingly handsome piece with my beautiful little bundle of joy and one day you are going to regret not disposing of me when you had the chance. Because, mark my words, you little glorified sidekick, there's only one place for people who stand in the way of me and my son and it's never too early to go coffin shopping."

"Why not kill me now, then?" he points out in angry confusion, brows bunching. "I'm not an idiot-"

Moriarty bites back a wicked grin. "Jury's still out on that one-"

"-I know you have your dutiful snipers lurking around here somewhere."

He tips his head, allowing that. "I _am _rather proficient, aren't I?"

"Is there any particular reason you haven't already given the signal? I can't fathom why you'd stall."

Unsettling the doctor, the consulting criminal's lips coil into a deadly, predatory smile and his stomach turns with sudden nausea.

"Because I don't want to simply kill you, Doctor Watson," he utters coldly. "I want to watch you squirm."

The greatest torture of all at this point is the inscrutability of his motives. The torment of imagination. Wondering what Moriarty might do. How might he punish Sherlock? And being totally helpless to do jackshit about it.

"You don't care about him," John says with conviction, hands clenching into fists by his sides. "You're not capable of it."

Moriarty laughs. "I'm capable of a lot of things, Twinkle Toes. But you're right: caring is not one of them."

Turning to the slumbering boy, he smoothly draws the sleepy child into his arms, one hand bracing his lower back. A hoarse whimper slips and Sherlock automatically reaches out to tease Moriarty's hair between his grabby fingers, before stilling - mollified once again. Blotches of red stain his cheeks and his fluffy locks are in soft, disorderly tangles, which the man flattens with one hand.

The scene is unbearably heart-warming.

A trace of tenderness flashes across Moriarty's face as he gazes down at the sluggish toddler - so quickly John should have no trouble convincing himself it was all in his head.

But the image is burned into the back of his mind.

And John wonders.

"Until next time, Johnny-boy," Moriarty grins. He slaps him on the back. "Good talk."

He fears he might never see Sherlock again.

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><p><em>Oh Dear. Worst. Custody. Dispute. Ever.<em>

_Hope you liked the Moriarty/John showdown. Fun, no? Please let me know what you think. That's my longest chapter yet._


	6. From The Inside

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**From The Inside**

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><p><strong>AN: **I don't think it's _wrong _to like Moriarty in this story. It's perfectly natural to root for the ruthless, psychotic villain…Right? *wrings hands nervously*

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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><p>Sherlock lies on his belly on the floor innocently playing with his toys. His features are absorbed as he exuberantly propels small plastic cars across the living room and watches them hurtle towards the wall with a faint allusion of a calculating smile.<p>

Normally, Moriarty would tell him off for such behaviour because as much as he loves to egg on the miniature public menace, he is sick of repainting that damn flaking wall. But today he lets him lob his toys around to his little heart's content with a lenient, if a bit forced, _Boys will be boys._ And he waits until the moment is right.

Determined to take advantage of his distraction, Jim holds his breath and begins creeping towards the door. He'll only be gone for a minute. Two, tops. No way he'll notice. Not this time.

"Daddy! Daddy! Tome pay!"

He stills.

"But I played with you all morning, silly goose," Moriarty points out, voice slightly strained as he struggles not to groan openly.

"No, no, no!" the little boy gripes, scowling. "You havta _pay_!"

No, what he _has _to do is take a piss. Badly. Preferably by himself every now and then. Is that so much to ask for?

The prospect of even a split second of solitude is so mouth-wateringly alluring. He _needs_ his space.

But ever since the abduction a few weeks ago, thoughts of a more permanent goodbye have been plaguing the youngster and he flat out refuses to let Moriarty out of his sight. At first he chalked it up to being naturally upset over a terrible trauma and that his Munchkin would recover soon enough so long as he provided adequate reassurance, but then the damn near crippling fears simply never went away.

The separation anxiety has gotten so bad that even bathroom visits are no longer off-limits, and it feels as if his every move is being dictated by a pint-sized, babbling toddler who is _physically _incapable of eating with a fork without making a rainbow-splattered murder scene out of food.

He is _this_ close to cracking.

Well. You know what they say. Drastic times call for drastic measures.

Controlling his grimace, he swings back around and arranges a cheerful smile to lilt, "Okie-dokie, Munchkin. You're the boss." Spying an overflowing basket over by the couch, he is struck by inspiration. "But can you do Daddy a super duper favour and fold these shirts for him? Hmm? Here, I'll show you." Under the little boy's curious stare, he grabs a shirt from the mound and doubles the freshly-pressed material over bit by bit until it's a neat, even square. "There you go. Easy peasy. Now it's your turn."

He picks up a day-old tee of his that no doubt smells like him and hands it to the youngster, causing Sherlock to peer up at him in confusion. "Why?"

"Because Daddy has _heaps _and _heaps _of laundry to do and he could really use a clever little helper to lend a hand and sort it all out. I don't know how I'll ever finish this all by myself!" Never mind the fact that he would never contemplate folding his own clothing in a million, billion years - not like _common _people - and isn't that what he pays the housemaids for? Does Sherlock think he allows strangers to wander around his home for the sheer heck of it?

"I help, Daddy!" he cries, bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. "Me helper!"

"Goodness gracious, lucky me," Moriarty gasps with mock delight while smirking inwardly. Worked like a charm. "Now, just like I showed you, okay?"

As if trying to smother him with sweetness, Sherlock presents his father with a radiant, dimpled grin. "Okay, Daddy! Me doo-dood as, as dold!"

Grinning, he ruffles the youngster's fluffy locks and agrees, "Uh-huh, sweetheart. Good as gold."

While Sherlock busies himself with the pointless task, Moriarty wastes no time heading for the door. Operation _Piss By Himself _is a raring success and, apparently on a roll, both operation _Shave Without Mentally Scaring Your Son_ and _The Fastest Shower In History _also go down without a hitch. He walks in and out of the room periodically, all the while maintaining an open line of communication, asking random physics questions and admiring Sherlock's folding skills to keep his focus on his accomplishments rather than Moriarty's momentary absences. He can hardly believe it goes so smoothly.

But of course it isn't that simple.

Later when he sitting at his desk thoughtfully clicking a pen and waiting for one of his well-to-do clients to get in touch, the door is pushed open and a tiny tot stumbles into his study, knuckling his eyes and sniffling.

"Sherlock? What are you doing up?" Moriarty frowns, consulting his watch. "You should be fast asleep. It's way past your bedtime."

"Daddy," the toddler blubbers, sad eyes shiny with unshed tears.

"Hey, hey," he murmurs, definitely _not _alarmed as the lethargic child climbs onto his lap. "What's with the waterworks? Did my poor Munchkin have another bad dream? Is that it?"

"Just-just miss 'oo," Sherlock mumbles into his neck, half-delirious with sleep as his thumb seeks his lips. An anxious hand seizes strands of his brown hair and clings with a deathly-tight grip. It's clear he's only half-awake and is unlikely to remember any of this come morning.

"Miss me?" the consulting criminal echoes, frowning faintly. "I'm right here."

"You-you'we working."

Kneading his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, Moriarty sighs wearily. "Well, yeah. I have meetings and responsibilities and lots and lots to do, but you're my top priority, Munckin. Always. Nothing gets in the way of me spending time with you."

"Just miss 'oo," he repeats, pulling his thumb out his mouth and patting his Daddy's jaw-line with a wonderfully slobbery hand. Moriarty just sits back and takes it.

"I know, Munchkin," Jim hums. "Miss you too." He holds Sherlock so that his head is resting against the older man's chest while a steady hand supports his back and a rogue thumb rubs in comforting circles.

Squirming a little, the child's lids droop and within minutes, he is out for the count.

Looks like someone's sleeping in his bed tonight.

That kid has him wrapped around his finger like nothing else imaginable. And he damn well knows it too.

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><p>On a Thursday afternoon during their regular colouring session, the duo receive an unexpected visitor.<p>

Moriarty is helping Sherlock shade his cowboy's hat when a dark figure walks uninvited into his home. Instantly tensing, he tightens his hold on his son on impulse, but relaxes when he recognises the familiar features and tasteful grey suit.

"Unca Seb!" Sherlock screeches, wriggling free of the man's grip and sliding off his lap in order to make a mad dash towards the unanticipated guest.

"Hey there, lil' guy!" he says warmly, grinning as he tosses him up into the air and catches him. "Long time no see. What have you been up to?"

Suddenly shy, Sherlock ducks his head and stiffly shrugs. Sebastian frowns but sets him down on the floor again, allowing the little boy to run back to the safety of his Daddy and push his face into Moriarty's leg, peeking out timidly.

"Sebastian," Moriarty greets coolly, affectionately squeezing the back of the boy's neck and grazing the ends of his dark hair with his thumb. "This is a nice surprise."

"That _was _the idea," he declares. "No-one's heard from you in weeks. What's the deal with that?"

"There was a rather unpleasant incident while you were gone that demanded my attention," he explains with a disdainful jerk of the mouth.

"So I heard."

Moriarty appraises him. "Then you must know why I've gone off the grid."

"I do," Sebastian concedes, nodding. "He's okay, though? He looks okay to me."

"It was an extremely harrowing ordeal, as you can imagine," Moriarty tells him, with a steel in his tone that promises he won't back down. "My continuous presence has been non-negotiable."

"Right, right. Figures," the other man mutters, before saying suddenly, "Hey, Sherlock? Can I speak to your Dad in private for a moment?"

Moriarty narrows his eyes in suspicion.

Cramming his fingers into his mouth, Sherlock scowls and protests, "No. My daddy." Without even looking, Moriarty reaches down and removes the sopping digits with a mild, "No fingers."

"Yeah, sure thing, kiddo," Sebastian answers, smiling at the timid toddler. "But can I maybe borrow him for a little bit? I promise I'll give him right back."

Considering this, the child sucks on the upturned collar of his jacket and responds unsurely, "Me dunno…"

"Ah, ah, ah," Moriarty scolds as he carefully extracts the damp fabric. "What did I say about chewing on clothing?"

The toddler sighs long-sufferingly and drags, "It _icky_."

"It sure is. So cut it out, would you?"

"But-but Unca Seb trying to-to 'teal 'oo way!" the little boy exclaims with wide eyes as if tattling on a pre-schooler whose taken his toy.

Feigning horror, Moriarty slaps a hand over his mouth and turns to the other man with a scandalised face. "You wouldn't do a naughty thing like that, would you, Uncle Seb?"

He shakes his head seriously. "I would not."

"Well, there you have it," the father proclaims. "Hear that, baby? I'm not going anywhere. I swear to you, I'll be right over here. You'll be able to see Daddy the whole time."

"But-but-_Mine_," he insists, latching onto Moriarty's hand and tugging.

Reminding himself to practise that pesky patience instead of losing his temper, Jim hunkers down to his son's eyelevel and appeases, "Yes, Sherlock. I'm your Daddy, not Uncle Seb's. But that doesn't mean that I can't talk to other grown-ups. Do you understand? Sometimes little boys and girls have to share their Daddies. That's just how it is."

"But-"

"No buts. Go finish your race track," he instructs, pushing him gently in the direction of his play pen. "I'll come take a look at it soon. Go on. Shoo." When Sherlock continues to glance up at him mournfully, he hardens his heart and claps his hands together briskly. "Less moaning. More playing."

Accepting that his Daddy is never going to budge on this matter, the sulking toddler finally leaves, dragging his feet loudly over to the growing assemble of cars, lorries, fire trucks and motorbikes strewn across the soft rug and dropping down with a pout.

"Sorry about that." Moriarty half-heartedly pulls a face and shrugs. "He's a little possessive at the moment."

"I can see that," Sebastian responds with amusement, one brow hoisted upwards as if in challenge.

"It's just a phase-"

"I bet it is."

"He'll grow out of it soon-"

The other man tosses him a taunting smirk. "Well, you _are_ the expert."

Refusing to rise to the bait, he insists, "It's a normal, healthy stage of a child's development-"

"Uh-huh."

"It doesn't change anything."

The smirk grows more pronounced. "Not a single thing."

Getting straight to the point, Moriarty frowns in distaste and carelessly questions, "What do you want, Sebastian?"

"Look, Jim. I get it. You needed to clear your head and be there for your little one. That's cool. We all need a tea break every once in a while. Listen, you know I am the founding member of your quest of fatherhood fan-club. But there are a number of urgent matters that could sincerely benefit from your assistance and some folks are getting real angsty over your lack of guidance of late."

"Oh, boo fucking hoo," Moriarty mocks with a twisted smile. "Turns out, idiots are idiots. I'm _astonished_."

"They're losing faith that you can get the job done, Jimmy," he reveals with a grim expression that borders on worried. "I can't do this alone. This is not the time to be giving the cold shoulder."

His jaw hardens but Moriarty reacts with the lightest of tones. No surprise there. "I understand, Sebastian. I reaalllly do. However-"

"Lemme guess: the kid needs you? Far be it from me to say you're slacking, but you've been holed up here for an eon with no signs of the fertile springtime to your unforthcoming hibernation. Whatever happened to Katrina?"

"Oh, her? Fired," he replies with abnormal airiness, a distinctly unapologetic lilt to his mouth. "I sent her packing the day she overdosed him on sugar and E numbers."

"Faye?"

"Long gone." He sounds almost bored. "The bi-witch filled his head with all sorts of nonsense. I couldn't very well tolerate that, could I?" He shrugs. "Same goes for Antonia."

"Why?" Sebastian asks curiously. "What'd they do?"

"Taught the tot how to tie his own shoelaces, and master the art of donning a t-shirt that isn't inside out and back to front. It was an atrocity. It is especially difficult to stamp out such unfortunate complications as encouragement. What else was there to do but eradicate the source?"

"You're kidding, right? Please, tell me you're kidding," he states, disbelief written in his features. "You realise you can't keep him helpless and dependant forever, don't you? He's going to grow up."

He doesn't look angry. Instead, he wears no expression. Sebastian can't decide which is worse.

"I am well versed in the functioning of the human anatomy, Sebastian. But don't deny me my fun. You've seen how proud he is when he dresses himself despite getting every conceivable thing _wrong_. It's adooorrable."

"I'm just saying," Sebastian defends himself. "Don't you think you're taking this a little too far? That's a tall glass of water for any nanny. You're picking and choosing which _basic_ requirements they comply with."

"So I have high standards. Or low - depending on where you're standing. You act as if I'm not scrupulously searching for a suitable replacement."

Sebastian crosses his arms and cocks a brow. "Are you?" he inquires pointedly.

The consulting criminal pauses and licks his lips. "…It's very tricky business-"

"That's what I thought," he remarks wryly. Sebastian squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, before exhaling forcefully and suggesting, "Alright, fine. Then what if I kept an eye on him for today so that you can go back to terrorising the neighbourhood? Would that be acceptable? Once in a lifetime deal. C'mon, you'd be a fool to turn it down. You need to get back in the game sometime."

"I don't know, Seb…Sherlock is-"

"Exceedingly clingy? That's alright. Good thing I'm exceedingly good at distracting." He snorts suddenly. "Oh, and FYI, you've got a little, erm, something there-" He stretches over and flicks a small morsel out of Moriarty's hair. Presumably the same morsel that must have landed there earlier after a certain scoundrel who shall not be named threw a spectacular strop over breakfast. "Rice krispie fan, huh?" Sebastian comments, pressing his lips together to stop himself from sniggering. "Fancy that. Yummy _and _nutritious."

Glowering with unmistakably sadistic intent, Moriarty breathes, "Not. A. Word."

He mimes zipping his lips and backs off with a playful grins. "Oh, no doubt. My lips are sealed."

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><p>After leaving to get changed into a devilishly handsome suit (devil being the operative word) while Sebastian distracted the tot with a handful of neat little card tricks that didn't fool him in the least, his astute eyes tracking every sly movement and resulting in him failing oh so very miserably, Moriarty nonchalantly returns and pulls him aside for a rundown of the 'basics.'<p>

"Sherlock knows the rules," the consulting criminal tells him, tucking his hands in his pockets. "It's beddy-byes by seven, no exceptions, and he's not allowed any of those toxic fizzy juices no matter what lies he tries to sell you. I am not letting my son become a poster boy for diabetes."

"Got it," Seb chimes.

"There are some healthy snacks in the fridge if he's peckish and puzzles in my study to keep him occupied-"

"Mhm." He should probably write some of this shit down. "Duly noted."

"Don't plop him down in front of the telly for hours either. I will not have you murdering his brain cells with any of that primitive crap they flog nowadays as entertainment-"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"I imagine he'll get rather restless come bedtime," he frets, which is ridiculous because Moriarty doesn't _do _fretting. "So make certain that he has his comfort blanket, and for a bedtime story, he likes _Why Do The Stars Come Out At Night_? It should make him relatively sleepy," Moriarty rhymes off, taking a deep breath and pausing for a second.

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. "You done?"

"Not yet. Don't forget to check that his nightlight is still plugged in and for Christ's sake, don't close the door all the way in. Not unless you want him to have a monster-induced heart attack."

"That everything? Would you like me to build a space rocket while I'm at it, too?" he quips. "Scale a skyscraper? I might have enough time to squeeze in a few unicorn rides if I'm lucky. Don't worry, though. I'll make sure he wears a helmet."

"Mind your tongue there, darling," Moriarty drawls with deadly calm, giving him a warning glare. "I'm meticulous. No harm in that."

"Right," Sebastian scoffs. "If that's what you want to call it. Meticulous, it is."

"Sherlock?" Jim calls, rolling his eyes at his friend. "Daddy has some work to do, so Uncle Seb's gonna take care of you while I'm gon-" Immediately, the sound of hasty footsteps ensues and a small body ploughs into his legs, hot arms winding around his leg and gripping tight.

"Dun go, Daddy!" he implores, infinite blue orbs swimming with instant-tears as they stare up at him pleadingly.

"Oh no," Moriarty swiftly counters. "Not the pathetic puppy-dog eyes. It won't work this time."

Forehead wrinkling pitifully, his eyes amplify to unbearably cute status, lips shuddering with the softest of sniffles.

Christ. It's like a punch to the gut.

"No," the young father repeats firmly. He has to stay strong. He's an outrageous, corrupt genius; he doesn't bow down to sad tiny children. "I have to go. It's not optional."

"That no fair!" Sherlock whines, stamping his foot petulantly. "No wan 'oo to go!"

"Ah, ah. No tantrums. It's unbecoming of you. Now be a good boy for Daddy, okay?" He bends down to kiss his crown. "I'll be back before you know it." Then, turning to the other man, Moriarty orders, "Text me later. I want full, hourly updates."

"Will do," he assures with a carefree salute.

"I mean it. If anything happens, remember it's your ass on the line. If he so much as _sneezes _out of place, I will tear out your jugular with my bare hands."

"Jeez, Jim," Sebastian says with mock hurt, pressing a hand to his heart. "That was almost offensive."

A muscle in his cheek tightens. "Sebastia-"

"What? You need to chill. Everything's under control. I think I can handle one high-maintenance, bloody toddler for one night."

Moriarty's eyes are blunt and savage. "If you're certain…"

"I am," Sebastian reaffirms, though gazing into _those_ he's not quite so sure. "Now beat it."

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><p>They're sitting crossed-legged on the floor, knee-to-knee, after Sherlock demanded he play patty-cake. Now, though, they're engaged in a keenly intense staring contest which they seemed to have fallen into by some freak accident. Sebastian doesn't know why he thought he'd ever be able to outlast the former detective, drastically reduced age and short attention-span included.<p>

At long last, as his watery eyes sting and blur, Sebastian finally concedes defeat.

He blinks.

Springing to his feet, Sherlock giggles in triumph and crows, "Ha! Beat 'oo! Beat 'oo!"

He doesn't know why he ever hoped he'd be a gracious winner, either. "You certainly did. Nice one, kiddo." He stands and brushes down his pants.

"What now, Unca Seb?"

"I dunno," he admits. Scratching his head, he gazes out at the sunlight streaming in from the large windows, an idea forming. "It's pretty dry outside. Wanna play some football? Or you not allowed fresh air because the risk of pneumonia or something? Do you even _have _a ball?"

"Me have ball," Sherlock grumbles, insulted. He dashes down the hall and into one of the rooms. After some rummaging, he returns some moments later with a medium-sized orange ball and holds it up as if to say, _See_.

"Sweet. Let's go have some good, clean fun." As the little boy rushes to the door, he quickly snags the back of his tee and announces, "Hold up there, kiddo. I was only half-teasing. Your Dad'll kill me if you catch a cold." Snatching a blue duffel coat from where it stick outs among the collection of larger black coats, he holds it open and invites the boy to threat his arms through, before swiftly buttoning him up. "There we go. Snug as a bug."

He releases the youngster who sprints outsides without delay, struggling with the door handle for only a moment before hopping down the small steps onto the expansive green. For his latest breather, Moriarty has selected one of his beautiful country estates in a remote part of rural England - the epitome of privacy. Which is exactly how Sebastian knew where he would be.

It is really stunning, though.

The sky is a deep, azure blue and the lawn is mowed and well-kept, dotted with daisies. Fields of green burst out across the hillside and sunlight soaks the valley, vibrant and fresh. Birds cawing in the distance, the air batting gently against the lush leaves of the trees, Sherlock runs ahead, a wide, dazzling smile stretching across his face. He obviously hasn't been out here in a long time.

"Ready to kick ass, lil' man?" he asks as turns the ball in his hands.

"Unca Seb…" Sherlock pipes up, smile falling as he bites his lip and twists his fingers. "What 'ootball?"

"You've never heard of football before?"

Little brows crease. That's a no, then.

"…Soccer?"

His face remains blank and clueless. If a little embarrassed.

"Your Dad never play ball with you before?"

Sherlock shakes his head. His voice is questioning as he assumes, "Ball bad?"

_Aw, damn you, Jim_, he thinks. At this rate, he'll have that kid scared of his own shadow. That's the danger with over-protective parents. Especially ones who are all-too aware of the threats out there in the big bad world.

The sleeves of the boy's duffel coat swallow his tiny hands and every time he pushes them up, they slip down again. Kneeling down and deftly rolling them up, Sebastian tuts, "Shame on him. Part of me wonders if he ever intends for you to fine-tune those rusty motor skills of yours. I'm half-amazed he let you learn how to walk." When Sherlock tilts his head to the side in a gesture that is eerily _Moriarty_-like, the man rolls his eyes and gets up. "Look, it's easy-peasy. All you have to do is give the ball a little kick with your foot. Tap it gently. Like that. See?"

Sticking out the tip of his tongue in concentration, Sherlock aims for the ball and swings, but narrowly misses, scuffing the ground with the top of his Velcro-strapped shoes and nearly falling backwards.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Sebastian chuckles, laying a hand on his back to steady him. "Take it easy, short stuff. Nice and careful. That's it."

He doesn't miss this time. Instead, he strikes it lightly and the ball rolls slowly across the grass. The boy giggles happily.

"Good job, buddy!" his uncle cheers. "Look at you! You'll be a pro in no time, I'm telling ya."

Beaming, they continue kicking the ball back and forth in the large back yard. More than once, the toddler's poor co-ordination gets the better of them and Sebastian has to jog across the yard to retrieve it from the bushes after it soars in the wrong direction.

Then all of a sudden during one commendable effort, his foot skids and the little boy trips. Flailing, he struggles to regain his balance and ultimately crashes into the pebble-dashed wall of the house, banging his head with a sickening thump.

"Sherlock!"

Sebastian runs over and gradually helps him up, heart hammering in his chest. With a low groan, the young child slowly raises his head and his vision is suddenly assaulted with red.

Brilliant red. Pouring from the wound.

"Huwts," Sherlock whimpers, blinking woozily and raising a hand to stem the blood flow.

"Holy crap," Sebastian mutters, gulping. "Holy, holy crap. It's official. I am gonna be one sorry bastard. I'm a frickin' goner."

There's no way he can convince him that this is a silly little bump. No way in hell.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading and an even bigger thank you for all of the reviews! You guys rock!<em>

_I hope everyone is okay with me introducing my own (wildly inaccurate) version of Sebastian Moran, but I felt that there would be so much more potential for future stories if there were additional characters who Moriarty can interact with on a largely non-threatening level._

_Also: there will be more to come from John and Mycroft. I doubt it's the last we've seen of them._


	7. After the Fall

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**After the Fall**

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><p><strong>AN: **For some reason, I was quite anxious about this chapter and I…I don't know what to make of it. I hope you guys enjoy.

To xxXKmiXxx, I must say I totally, one-hundred percent adore both of your prompts. They are so awesome and I can only hope I can do them justice. Thank you very, very much. With any luck, I'll get started on those soon. If anyone else thinks of anything they might like to see, then feel free to send a prompt my way and I'll see what I can do.

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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><p>The tot gets patched up easily enough. It's nothing too serious, looks worse - a lot worse - than it is. Not even a mild concussion, mercifully. Though everything after the fall is a bit of a blur.<p>

Memories merge of panic and tears and furious red and helpless cursing, at a complete loss as to what to do. After carrying him inside and compressing a towel to the youngster's head, he'd grappled for the emergency number of Moriarty's private doctor, who must have broken more than one traffic law to get here as fast as he did. He'd smiled reassuringly at the upset toddler and gave him a red lollipop to suck while he checked him over with all of the thoroughness of someone who comprehends the cost of even a simple mistake.

In the end, Sherlock needed seven stitches.

The doctor's look was one of distress. It wasn't directed at the kid.

He calls out for his Daddy for the entire duration, tears streaming down his face, which only causes Sebastian to feel more and more terrified of Daddy dearest's reaction. Unable to stomach the thought himself, he asks (begs) one of the housemaids to make the call. He likes to believe she doesn't agree out of pity.

To distract the child while he waits for his pain meds to kick in, Sebastian sits on the couch beside him and teaches the little guy how to blow bubbles that he makes with some washing up liquid. "The trick is not to blow too hard, you hear? You gotta be gentle."

"Daddy say be gentle when me pull his hair. Wike that?"

"Ah.. Sure. What the heck."

Following a series of false starts during which he pouts crossly, Sherlock finally forms a string of successful bubbles, which he stares at in jaw-slacked amazement as they float farther and farther away, sparkling in the sunlight.

"Quick! Pop that one before it touches the floor," Sebastian urges with a playful grin. He's doing his best to make sure Sherlock stays clueless, that he never sees his smile waver.

Craning his neck, the bubble bursts on the tip of his nose and Sherlock squeals with delight, jumping. "Dot it, Unca Seb! Did 'oo see? Me dot it!"

"Easy on the jumping, tiger. Your head's still fairly tender."

"But me dot it!"

"Uh-huh. Way to go, kiddo. Up top, my man," he enthuses, beaming as the toddler clumsily slaps his hand and carefully ruffling his hair. "You wanna give it another try? Pretty awesome, right?"

Sherlock nods eagerly and dunks his plastic stick into the water, giving it an energised stir, before noisily blowing again. It's absolutely adorable, but Sebastian is all-too aware that his meter is running. Sooner rather than later, he'll have to pay the ugly price.

All of a sudden, something grabs him from behind and yanks him backwards. A hand grips his jaw, smothering his protest as sharp nails dig into his flesh and he is slammed against the wall. Cutting into his line of vision, a blade glitters above his Adam's apple.

He swallows thickly.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't play x's and o's with your throat right now," Moriarty grinds out, eyes alive with malice. He is almost demonic in his ferocity, settling hostile lips over a flash of teeth.

Moriarty has never looked more frightening than he does in that moment.

Livid and bloodthirsty, Jim's body twitches with the vehemence that courses through him - something so dominant, so potent, it can no longer be contained. No longer can he hide the truth. It ensnares him.

"Jim, it was an accident-" Sebastian explains quickly around his swollen tongue. "You've gotta believe me. I didn't mean to-"

"I should roast you alive for what you've done," he snarls, driving the knife closer, dribbles of blood pushing to the surface, "Two hours, Sebastian. I trusted you and you blew it within _TWO FUCKING HOURS_!"

Behind him, Sherlock violently flinches at the thunderous roar.

"Jim! Jim, will you calm the fuck down?!" Sebastian tries to reason, voice tight with strain. _"Jesus._ You're scaring him!"

His grip on the knife relaxes momentarily as if he'd only just remembered the little boy's presence, but before Sebastian can take advantage of this lapse in attention, Moriarty tightens his grip and his glare intensifies, scorching on his. "Sherlock, go to your room," he orders without turning, brusque and authoritative, "Get out. Now."

Eyes blown wide and infected with fear, the little boy takes one last, fleeting look at Sebastian before scurrying away, knocking over the bottle of bubbles which abruptly empties onto the floor, nothing more than a shimmering puddle.

A door bangs distantly.

Without warning, Moriarty releases him and he collapses to the ground as all the air rushes out of him, a searing pain left in its place. He clutches the side of his torso as blood begins to gush, soaking through his clothing and saturating his hands in a matter of seconds.

"L-listen," he pleads, coughing, "I have it on go-good authority that Erikson's been planning to strike and strike hard," Sebastian reveals, "He ain't happy with the downgrade in his share of the profits and he and some buddies have been dancing around a modest bargain with the competition, but at the moment no-one's exactly itching to make the first move."

Moriarty pauses. "And you didn't think to inform me of this sooner?"

"What can I say?" Sebastian chuckles bitterly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and stifling a groan. "It never hurts to have a little leverage. I was monitoring the situation."

"And if he'd switched sides?"

"It wouldn't have come to that," he counters forcefully.

Mouth wrenching into an ugly sneer, Jim laughs, a sinister, sickening sound that Sebastian cannot escape. "It's cute that you think I didn't already know about this," he remarks, simmering fire and wrath, "But thanks for the heads up. A rather disappointing show of worth, really."

He draws back and kicks him squarely in the chest. Sebastian's entire body shudders in agony.

He gasps, "Jimmy, you know that with you working part-time, I'm more of an asset to you than ever. You can't have eyes and ears everywhere. Somewhere along the line, you're gonna slip up. It's only a matter of time." He's slurring, fingertips tingling. This can't be it. "Don't discard one of the only allies in the business you have left. Not over this."

"I don't plan on killing you, Sebastian," Moriarty states, acid littering the foundations of his casual tone. "Believe it or not, you are a very dear to me and I'd hate to have to butcher all ties with a comrade who shares equal passion and appreciation for the craft, much less one who has served me so well over the years. I don't like getting my hands dirty and I don't give second chances, but… I'll make an exception just this once."

His face goes absolutely blank, thus telling him nothing. Moriarty's huge brown eyes turn opaque. Usually, Sebastian can predict his reaction, how every muscle would transform to portray an emotion, but today, interpreting his expression - or lack thereof - is next to impossible.

"An eye for an eye, Sebastian," Jim murmurs, before delivering a swift, final blow to the head. Effectively knocking him out.

Sebastian slumps, drenched in an expanding pool of his own blood, seeping liberally from the stab wound.

Pilfering a handkerchief from his suit jacket, Moriarty dabs the length of his hands and frowns at the darkened stain on his silver tie. What a shame. That was one of his favourites. Simply dashing along with his charcoal waistcoat. An impeccable ensemble, really.

"Clean this up," Jim tonelessly instructs his poker-faced workers, only their rigid postures betraying their fear. "I want it gone."

With a sigh, he steps over the unconscious body and tosses the sullied hankie over his shoulder, leaving a silky scarlet trail in his wake.

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><p>To his surprise, an hour later, the door to Sherlock's room is fully open and he leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms at the discouraging display in front of him.<p>

Dammit.

Propped up by chairs and sheltered by the bed is a magnificent fort, warmed by the dull glow of a flashlight. White sheets and extra blankets expand across the bedroom, clipped in place by worn clothes pegs. He even recognises his own bedspread, which is only to be expected - his Munchkin can't help but seek solace in things which remind him of Moriarty, whether through ownership or smell. Consequently, his belongings have an unfortunate tendency to spontaneously vanish.

He once came home after a short solo trip overseas to find Sherlock asleep swathed in his black scarf.

Nonetheless, it doesn't bode well for him.

Whenever Sherlock (or more accurately, whatever employees he can rope in with the aid of a doleful gaze) builds what he's taken to terming his 'Blankie Palace,' it usually signifies one of three things: he is bored and the wreckage alone is enough to keep him amused, he's ill/hurt/upset and is dire need of comfort, _or_, last but certainly not least, he is pissed the fuck off and wants to be left the hell alone.

In this case, it just so happens to be a combination of all three.

Organizing a composed exterior with a smooth forehead and a calm, set smile, Moriarty crouches outside the grand structure and chirps, "Knock, knock, Munchkin. Can Daddy come in?"

_Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?_

The reply is immediate, "Go way. Not 'llowed in."

_Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll-_

"Pretty please?" he entices, adding a layer of the sweetest sincerity to his voice. "I brought goodies."

He hears the tiniest of sighs, followed by a unenthusiastic, "If 'oo must."

That's how it's done.

Suppressing a chuckle despite himself, Moriarty peels back a layer of the heavy covers and crawls inside the cramped space, mindful of the flashlight dangling from the crafted ceiling.

It's dim and comfy, if a little stuffy, with blankets spread out on the floor alongside an abundance of puffy pillows.

Kneeling in the centre, barefoot and clad in his cosy Mickey Mouse jammies, Sherlock is steadying a Batman action figurine on top of a white steed in preparation of their noble quest - if the past is anything to go by, they should be galloping over mighty mountains in the form of cushions and battling a ferocious 'beast' (also known as, Snuffles, the overweight teddy bear) in order to the save the beautiful princess who bears a striking resemblance to Superman. Not exactly a poor damsel in distress. But Moriarty never says anything. It's highly entertaining.

Today, though, he's not exactly in a carefree mood and he can't bring himself to properly enjoy the spectacle.

The sight of stitches mutilating his son's pale skin and bruises smearing his flesh ravages Moriarty's insides, and it takes him a few minutes to identify the horrible, relentless sensation. It feels…it feels almost like-like guilt? Except that couldn't be.

It couldn't.

If Moriarty didn't feel bad about blowing a woman's brains out in front of her haemorrhaging husband or beating his best friend within an inch of his life, then he's understandably not going to chastise himself over leaving his poor baby to soothe himself. Or for not-not being there. When he.. he needed him. No, that would be ridiculous.

Except…

Doesn't it sort of feel as though something has speared his lungs, ripped out in his innards, and lit his insides on fire? Doesn't it seem as if something is wringing out his stomach every time he catches a glimpse of his Munchkin's healing wound? Doesn't it hurt, quite a bit?

What else could this be, then, but guilt?

"Here you go, sweetheart," Jim says softly, passing the child his purple sippy cup and clearing his throat. "Daddy thought you might feel a bit better with some nice, warm milk in your tummy."

"Fank 'oo," Sherlock responds quietly, grasping the sippy cup and tipping it back, slowly draining the creamy contents as he inattentively fidgets with his blue blankie and peeks at his Dad out of the corner of his eye.

He smiles. "Wanna see what other surprises Daddy's got hidden up his sleeve?" Reaching into his inner pocket, he fishes out a small object and presents, "Ta-da!"

The little boy's face instantly falls into a frown.

A little startled, Moriarty questions, "Don't you want your sucker?"

He scowls and protests, "I too big, Daddy. Not a'spposed to have sucky."

Christ, not this again, he silently groans, rolling his eyes skyward. When will he learn that it's up to _Jim_ to decide when he's too old for anything? If he wants to fuss over him, he will. If he wants to baby him, fine. Enough of this silly independence.

He's in charge here.

"It'll be our little secret, Munchkin," Moriarty persuades in a conspiring whisper, bumping his shoulder against his little one's. "I won't tell if you don't. Come on. Be a good boy."

Sherlock looks as if he'd like to point out all of the many times his Dad has complained about him sucking on the ears of his stuffed animals or his fingers, but wisely, the kid holds back. He must sense that it wouldn't help his case. It's no shocker that a suspected madman is sending out mixed messages.

Moriarty is a network of contradictions.

Wrinkling his nose, the youngster asserts, "Not a baby."

"You're my baby," he utters simply, gaze steady. "Forever and always."

_You scared yet?_

"'Oo huwt Unca Seb," Sherlock states matter-of-factly, indicating his reddened knuckles and the small spot of blood on his right cufflink with a deepening frown.

It would be an insult to his intelligence to deny it. "He hurt you first," the father counters stubbornly.

"Daddy mean," the kid accuses, tone troubled.

Moriarty laughs. "Yeah," he shamelessly admits, eyes twinkling. "Little bit."

When Sherlock glances down and begins morosely playing with his toes, the young man heaves a sigh and gentles his tone to say, "That nasty ouchie made you very, very sad, didn't it? Well, Daddy doesn't like it when his Munchkin is sad. That's all. Daddy's very sorry."

Peeping up from under his lashes, Sherlock is silent for a long time, before cautiously opening his mouth and accepting the dummy - accepting his apology. The only sounds are those of meek, rubber squeaks and soft slurps as he shuffles over and curls up beside his father, who snakes an arm around him and hugs him securely.

Moriarty settles back and lets his eyes drift closed, lip unconsciously raising at one corner. But deep down, he knows.

Someday, like it or not, his baby will have to grow up.

Excuses wear thin. True colours shine through.

Someday, sorry won't be enough.

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><p>Lounging back against the side of the bed, he links his hands casually behind his head, elbows poking out at either side, and stretches out his long legs beyond the perimeter of the fort, flowing fabric bunching at his crossed feet.<p>

"Skittle?" Moriarty asks, extending the newly-opened packet for Sherlock to dip in a tentative hand and rustle around for a moment before popping a couple of the chewy sweeties in his mouth, while Jim himself knocks back a colourful handful.

He's not above bribery.

"Ticky?" Sherlock offers in return, holding up a shiny roll.

"Daddy would love a sticker, thank-you," Jim permits, features seeming much less harsh all of a sudden in the faint, cloaked light.

With some difficulty, the boy bites his lip and strips off a black skull sticker, and Moriarty stoops down so that the toddler can carefully paste it onto his forehead, lips teasing the makings of a doting smile as he straightens again.

Petting his silky hair as the child returns to his game, the man tilts his head and notes thoughtfully, "Remind me, you need to get your hair trimmed this week."

Big mistake.

Sherlock immediately snaps to attention with a grouchy, "No way! Dun wan hair cut!"

"Yes way," Moriarty maintains, wishing he'd never brought it up. "How else am I supposed to see my precious baby boy's angelic widdle face?" he coos, leaning in close and teasingly snapping his teeth. "Cute enough to eat, I think. Oh dear, on second thought… I might just have to gobble you up instead!"

His hand shoots out and tickles the boy under his chin who quickly ducks his head and dissolves into a puddle of hearty chortling. Targeting his established weak spots, the toddler squirms and kicks out his legs, almost screeching in glee.

"Dun-dun dobble me, Daddy!" the toddler pleads, gasping and gurgling at his father's silliness and swatting at his face. When Jim responds by pretending to munch on his scrumptious, little button nose, Sherlock wags a finger and admonishes, "No. Bad Daddy!"

Needless to say, that same finger soon ends up trapped in the consulting criminal's mouth.

Disaster averted. On both accounts.

Soon after he's calmed down and his breaths return to normal, Moriarty tugs the toddler onto his lap and listens to his astonishingly detailed recitation of his day, the only gleam in his eyes now a loving one, clouded with worship. Not a trace of disappointment left.

Checkmate, Sherlock.

Your move.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading.<em>

_In this chapter, I really wanted to create this jarring contrast between Criminal-Moriarty and Daddy-Moriarty. Even at his best, he is very flawed and I was keen to portray his two, drastically different sides. Thoughts?_

_Oh, and Sebastian is definitely NOT dead. Just thought I'd clear that up just in case. _


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